


Wishing for Bluebeard

by angelblack3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Aphrodisiacs, Body Horror, Crimson Peak Inspired, Double Penetration, Drugged Sex, Gaslighting, Ghosts, Historical Inaccuracy, Horror, M/M, Magical Realism, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7482318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We must not look at goblin men,<br/>We must not buy their fruits:<br/>Who knows upon what soil they fed<br/>Their hungry thirsty roots?” - The Goblin Market, Christina Rossetti</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishing for Bluebeard

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by You_Light_The_Sky who has been an incredible inspiration and motivation for my works; and is just an all around fantastic friend to have. 
> 
> Many thanks to my other fabulous friends, who were just as excited to read this as it was being developed, as I was to write it. 
> 
> As always, appreciation to all of the ones who just like to pass through to skim for the dark sex, or who have been avid readers since day one. I wouldn't be able to do this without feeling that love <333\. 
> 
> This is a Victorian Universe in which 18-19th century Britain did not have a big Thing against homosexuality. As an aside never tell yourself 'Oh, I'm sure it will be a short story'. That way lies woe and wondering why in god's name it's climbing five digits in the word count.
> 
> *Edit: I tweaked the final part a little bit, since I think my attempt at brevity became a really confusing 'huh?' kind of ending. *

The funeral was a small affair. Sherlock had offered to pay for something more lavish--a gleaming coffin, perhaps some more roses for the wake--but John had refused. Harry wouldn’t have wanted something so frivolous. 

“I didn’t have much of a fortune when I was alive John, why in God’s name would I want it spent when they’re putting me in the ground?” she would probably say. As John watched them throw dirt over her pine box, he had to hold back the laughter at her imagined voice as she complained, “Just wrap me in burlap and toss me in the hole. What the hell is the box supposed to be for anyway? Am I meant to be a present for God?” 

The cough that he covered with his fist was fake. The tears were real. 

Later that night, John was alone in his room. Sherlock and his business partner, Jim, had taken the guest rooms. Even though this meaninglessly large house was more occupied than it had been in a very long while, John still felt it was empty without Harry’s raucous laughter.

He listened to the sound of his own breathing, and the occasional whine of the wind against his window. No matter how hard he tried, he could still sense the vacuum of his sister’s absence. John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, pushing back the hot prickling until it sizzled in the back of his skull.

Over the past few months, he’d gained a fiancé and lost a sister. Sherlock was everything they needed and, miraculously, also everything John wanted. 

Sherlock was sharp as a whip, but applied his intelligence to promoting his business and striving to make this world a better place. He had a dark streak of humor that aligned with John’s own; but was never callous in his remarks. He took interest in the things John was passionate about; and had even expressed a desire to fund John’s education in surgery should John ever desire to reapply. John would never take advantage of Sherlock’s wealth, but now he finally had the possibility of being a certified doctor within his grip again. It was a rekindled dream that he thought snuffed by his father’s gambling and collusions with the worst sorts of crowds. Yet Sherlock was making it possible. 

And best of all, when John caught the man staring at him with his ice blue eyes, he saw nothing but love there. 

John had finally been making a family of his own, crafting a new legacy for the Watson name that went beyond pointless titles, and now his only sibling was rotting in the ground. Apparently John’s life was a fun little game for God to bungle when He was bored. 

John forced down that unhelpful bitterness where it sat in his gullet. The wind still continued to batter against his house. He thought of Sherlock, lying alone in his bed, able to provide the comfort and warmth that was achingly absent from John’s life. Abandoning propriety, John threw off his blankets to go rendezvous with his, no doubt, willing intended, when a noise stopped him.

The creaking groans of the house and the tempestuous weather had lent itself to some truly imaginative amounts of noises over the years. John had grown inured to all of them. This was something different. 

It was the sound of a woman sobbing.

John looked up from the floor to the only door to his room. A woman dressed in mourning clothes was covering her face with her hands. The pale, peeling skin of her hands and the sheer black veil obscured her features, but they didn’t need to. John had seen those clothes covering the corpse of his sister not eight hours ago. 

As if she could hear John’s body turn to stone with terror, Harry’s face came up from her cupped palms. The empty sockets of her eyes leaked inky ooze and trailed down her withered features, following the stark outlines of her cheekbones until it dripped off of her pointed chin. 

“John,” her voice was as soft as dust carried by a breeze, but he could still make out her words, “my dear brother John. I am so sorry. I couldn’t protect you.”

John didn’t know what to say to that, even if his tongue hadn’t clung to the roof of his mouth. 

“I couldn’t protect you. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t protect you,” Harry repeated, swaying back and forth. Her motions became erratic, and her hands fell to her sides. “I couldn’t protect you, I couldn’t protect you,” she chanted, her abyssal eyes never straying from John’s. “I couldn’t protect you, I couldn’t protect you,” her voice rang into a screech as piercing as the wind’s. 

Her fingers dug into the wood of the doorway. The frame splintered as she jerked from side to side, “I couldn’t protect you! I couldn’t protect you!” she screamed over and over. John wondered why no one had come running for the noise, but deep down he knew. 

Ever since he’d seen their dead father’s face literally at the bottom of a whisky bottle, Harry didn’t dismiss it as an odd manifestation grief. Both agreed to keep quiet about lest he ended up on the wrong side of Bedlam. 

Occasional wispy silhouettes around cemeteries were the only things he’d seen since then. Nothing this violent, not ever before. 

When the frame of the door began to peel away from Harry’s unnatural strength, John finally found his voice. “Harriet! Stop it!” He only used her given name when he was cross with her. 

She halted immediately, but still clung to the door. “Oh, John,” she wailed, and he could see more black tears painting her bone pale face, “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t protect you.”

John was about to ask what she meant, but her dead stare tore the words from him again. 

“But I will. I promise you, I will protect you this time.” 

She crumbled away like coal dust, drifting across the floorboards towards John’s feet. He pulled them away like a child scared of a monster under their bed. An unfelt breeze lifted it from the floor, and the shape of a hand touched his face one final time before it seeped out the cracks of his shuttered window. 

John blinked at the emptiness of his room. He sat there for the rest of the night, with his hands clutching the blankets, and trembled as if he were caught in the middle of an arctic storm.

~~~~

The wedding was as grand as the funeral the fortnight previous. With just Sherlock, the parishioner, John, and Jim acting as witness, it seemed a rather modest affair. John had never looked happier. 

Most of John’s things were on route to Jim and Sherlock’s mansion out in the countryside. All that was left was to make the journey himself. John had wanted the marriage over and done with so they could all leave his dreary house, now far more haunted than John was accustomed to. 

Jim had been the only one disappointed at the disregard for a lavish celebration. “It just seems a shame. We finally have a chance to celebrate something and yet both grooms have opted for a ceremony so sparse it would make even the most frugal soul weep.”

John had laughed and said, “Why should I invite total strangers to celebrate one of the best days of my life, when you two are the only ones whose attendance I honestly care about?” Jim had relented at that.

After the final ‘I do’ and the most tender kiss in all of Britain, John was glad at their decision. There was a pang of hurt at the loss of Harry’s celebratory whooping in the background, but it fled at the sight of Sherlock’s loving expression. 

They also forwent a honeymoon. John was eager to start his life on the Baker Estate, and wanted to get accustomed to his new home. The busy work involved in moving would be a far better distraction than the stagnancy of repose on a vacation. 

The mansion itself was large, but not overbearingly so. One or two rooms were converted into labs for Sherlock’s experiments, a few were studies for Jim and Sherlock’s trading business, while several were practically small libraries with books packed tight against the shelves. 

“Each library has a theme, and most of it is nonfiction,” Sherlock had said when John asked him about the contents, “we can clear out a room for you and have it dedicated to fictional novels if you would like.” John had smiled and declined the offer, saying he’d be perfectly happy acquainting himself with recent medical journals instead. 

“Maybe when I’m old and gray I’ll use my retirement to finally catch up to popular culture,” John had jested. Sherlock had smiled at him, and John had blamed the strained edge to it on their long travel.

By far, John’s favorite part of the estate was the greenhouse. 

The steel painted vine green and the reflective glass were a stark counterpoint to the mansion’s dark wood and stone steps. Inside, a tropical array of flowers flourished while the outside world was still caught in the dead of winter. 

“I’ve often fantasized about warmer climates,” John confessed to Sherlock as he was shown the different plants, “to go someplace not even the bleak skies of England could reach. Harry and I often made up grand stories of what it would be like.” He went silent. While the tortured banshee that was the ghost of his sister still clung to his thoughts, it didn’t diminish the love and companionship he’d felt for her. 

He was pulled from his moroseness by Sherlock gently clasping his hand, “We’ll go there ourselves, one day. When you feel the time is appropriate for a proper vacation. There are many things I wish to show you John. But only when you are ready to let me.”

John smiled at him. He felt as though he should reassure his patient husband that the wait would likely be a short one, when his attention was caught by another part of the greenhouse. 

It was a small offset compared to the rest of the greenhouse, yet still quite large. The door of it was padlocked shut, but John could make out shadows of plants past the opaque glass. John asked, “What’s this area?”

“A cordoned section, for very good reason,” Sherlock explained, “Jim and I have been working on a new strain of poisonous plants as a side experiment. We hope that it will revolutionize the process of breeding genetic characteristics into a much more potent substance.”

“You’re intending to create an even stronger poison?” John asked in confusion.

Sherlock smiled, “In a manner of speaking, yes. It’s really more of a side project, meant to amuse the both of us. Once we’ve perfected it we intend to license it towards more commercial purposes. Perhaps as an infestation deterrent.” 

John laughed, “You both continue to surprise me. In your hobbies and your intellect.”

Sherlock looked at him with a touch of his own confusion, mixed with a slight bit of wonder. “You don’t mind then?”

John shrugged, “Why should I? Whatever use you make of the strange plant I’m sure it will be well worth it. As long as it doesn’t put either of you in any danger.” 

“We take every precaution,” Sherlock assured him, continuing to look completely surprised that his husband would be so accepting of a strange past time. 

“Then it doesn’t bother me. Even poisons can have their practical uses. I believe there’s an entire field of study to their medicinal applications. I believe I can even distinguish a few of your plants for their remedial implementations. Why don’t you show me the rest of it?”

They made a game of it. Sherlock would point out an acquisition in the glass garden, and John would try and list off all of its properties before Sherlock could. By the end of it John was lamenting his lack of knowledge while Sherlock promised to compile every book on the subject he possibly could, and add a few more species to the greenhouse that would prove useful. 

John delighted in the future that lay ahead of him, and didn’t think about the locked section again for quite some time. 

~~~~

There was, admittedly, not much to do within the house besides read and assist in maintaining the upkeep. Sherlock and Jim both preferred their privacy, so they had very little staff to help around the mansion. Which was quite alright with John, who would have felt awkward having someone constantly at his beck and call. 

Still, as much as he loved his husband and found Jim to occasionally be a stimulating conversationalist, he needed a bit of time to himself. So he told Sherlock where he was off to, and he protested far more firmly than John had expected. 

“Surely you could entertain yourself here. I’m certain there are some copies of those Shakespearian plays that you enjoy so much. Or some new shipments of flower seeds just came in, you could help me analyze the properties and-”

“It isn’t entertainment than I’m seeking Sherlock, it’s company. Oh, don’t give me that look, you know what I mean. I’m to live here for the rest of my life, I should get to know people outside of my very limited social circle.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know anyone from that town. When they’re not frightfully dull they’re exceedingly nosy. Just stay with me for the night and we can-”

“Oh, let the poor man go Sherlock,” Jim said, coming around the corner. John would have been cross that he’d been eavesdropping on their conversation, but he was on John’s side. Besides, Jim had every right to wander down his own corridors to listen to increasingly louder arguments. 

“Johnny’s right, he’s been cooped up here with us so much he’s practically roosting. Let him have his independence, isn’t that what the modernists are advocating for nowadays?”

Sherlock gave Jim an expression of such misplaced ferocity that John stepped back at the sight of it. Clearly his husband was upset about something far beyond a lone excursion. Just as he was about to inquire about it, and perhaps recant his plans to soothe Sherlock’s nerves, the look disappeared.

“Fine then,” Sherlock bit out, “but don’t blame me if you return weeping from the atrocious boredom.” 

He stormed off before John could retort or try to amend this strange behavior. Jim stepped in front of him anyway, giving John a reassuring smile. “No need to worry about it Johnny. Sherlock’s never been good at playing with others. Go out and enjoy yourself, he’ll get used to it soon enough.”

John’s smile was unsure, but the need to depart from the house had now become a matter of necessity combined with a desire for a change of scenery. He left after thanking Jim for the interference and advice.

The distance into town and the biting winds meant that John was forced to take a carriage rather than ride on his own. Sitting in the cabin, unable to feel the wind on his face no matter how freezing, made him miss the convenience of London. Unless he had some business on the other side of town, a refreshing walk through the bustling city always put him in better spirits. For now, he would have to get used to taking long strolls around his unchanging property or wait for the warmer seasons to allow him to ride to his heart’s content. 

They arrived at their destination, a pub that was either the only one in existence to the town or the most popular one. The warm light was a welcome invitation from the clinging chill, and the infectious cheer that could be heard from the outside gave John hope that he could make a few new friends before the night was over. 

He shivered as he exited the cab, looking up at his driver. “Care to join me Mr. Hope? You’ll be sure to catch your death out here.” 

“Not to worry Mr. Watson-Holmes,” the driver responded under a bundle of blankets and scarves, “I’ve my own means of keeping warm on nights like these.” He pulled out a flask to demonstrate, “You go on and don’t let your concern over an old man keep you from making acquaintances.” 

“Feel free to join me at any time,” John said, reluctant to leave the man alone but eager to get out of the cold himself, “I’ll be back in a short while to see how you’re faring.” 

He didn’t hear Mr. Hope’s disbelieving mutters as he turned away. 

The establishment was a welcome reprieve from the outdoors, and the boisterous noises of other people engaged in discourse raised John’s hopes of finding a person with fellow interests. The bar was crowded, but John managed to maneuver his way through and asked for a pint. The keeper looked at John’s tailored coat and took his coin while asking, “Where do you hail from stranger?”

“Oh, not far,” John replied, “just a newlywed resident of the Baker Estate.” 

The keeper dropped the glass. Beside him, the few people that had been talking so animatedly beforehand halted their conversation immediately. 

John blinked at the sudden lull, “Is something wr-”

“No!” the flustered man said, reaching for another glass, “Not at all. Just that, the residents up there, basically royalty to us on the bottom of the hill. What with the fancy place and all. Plus, Mr. Holmes and Moriarty give their God-given best to this town, that’s the truth.”

“Really?” John’s interest had been piqued. He hadn’t taken the notable wealth of his husband and friend into consideration before coming into town, which he supposed could explain why the people beside him were trying their best to be discreet with their glances. Sherlock and Jim hadn’t mentioned they participated in charitable events for the town’s benefit, “What do they do for this place?”

“Oh, you know,” the keeper waved his hand vaguely, “provide the means for decent work, coin to fix the buildings when disaster strikes, that sort of thing.”

John smiled, pleased at all of the good Sherlock and Jim had contributed to the town, and were working on bringing to the rest of the world. He idly wondered why they hadn’t mentioned this, as neither of his fellow Estate residents were particularly modest. The thought fled him however, when his pint was joined by a smaller glass filled with whiskey. 

John looked up in surprise at the man and pushed it away saying, “Oh, no, I only wanted the one.”

“Ah it’s alright sir, this one’s on the house. For all the good your husband and his business partner provide the town. Finest liquor in the establishment.”

John was still unsure, but felt it would be rude to turn down the offer. “Cheers, then,” he said, lifting his original glass and drinking from it. He went to find another place to make conversation, away from the ones who’d been looking at him from their peripherals the whole time.

Without fail, everything would be going amiably until John introduced himself. Then everyone would stammer, vehemently thank Holmes and Moriarty despite them not being in the room, offer to buy John another drink, and then either leave or offer stilted conversation.

It was with no small amount of bitterness that John began to wonder if Sherlock had been right all along. Perhaps there wasn’t much this town could offer in terms of lively discussion. John dismissed those thoughts. Clearly there was some misunderstanding. If Sherlock and Jim contributed as much as they did, half of these people were employed by them in some fashion. John being here must have seemed like an envoy coming to evaluate the behaviors and mannerisms of their subordinates. 

By the time John had finished his drink and the one gifted to him by the bartender, he gave the venture up as a lost cause. He would have to try again, after he had established himself as a member of the community as much as the residents who had inhabited this area for decades. John had no intentions of becoming a recluse whose only company was that of his own household and the stiff decorum of occasional high society congregations. 

For now, he would leave and return back to his husband. Who would hopefully not pour salt into the sting of this failure by gloating about his entirely correct presumption. 

Warmed by drink and close bodies, the outside was not as bitter as it had been. The winds had died down, and gentle snow coated the streets and obscured all footsteps. Including the tracks of his carriage, which was nowhere to be found. 

John cursed mildly. He sorted through every excuse possible and dismissed every one. Doubtless Mr. Hope had gone to find somewhere to refill his flask. Despite the close presence of the ale house. Maybe he was visiting a friend. At the dead of night. Perhaps the cold had seeped into his bones and he’d taken the carriage around to try and warm himself and had become lost. In a small village that he’d lived in his entire life.

John’s swearing took on a more emphatic tone. Where the blazes had Hope gone to? 

His annoyance was swiftly overtaken by concern. If there was no innocuous reason for his departure, then there was the possibility that he hadn’t left of his own volition. Suddenly the air seemed to cut through the lingering warmth of the ale. 

John stiffened at every lengthy shadow that might conceal some hidden enemy. John wasn’t a stranger to peril. His father had taken up with a few unsavory types who had tried to knock Harry about for the sport of it. They soon found that not all Watson men were without integrity or bravery. His sister had often said that John reveled in a chance to unleash the temper he kept smothered under a gentle disposition and dry wit. 

At least in London, he knew when to spot someone of ill intent. Here, a foreigner in uncharted territory and an uneasy relationship with the residents, he had no way of knowing what to expect.

John headed down the street in search of his wayward ride, trying not to let his unease tense his shoulders or make him hasty. He walked on and on, and felt the paranoia drain from him with each step. It seemed that wherever Hope had gone, it was well away from the pub. He considered finding an inn and taking lodgings there for the night. He had more than enough money, and a good night’s rest would provide him with the clarity of starting his search anew.

He turned around with the intention to ask for lodging recommendations from the barkeep, when he noticed a swift shadow emerge from an alleyway. Without thought John stepped to the side and brought his elbow down against man’s back. 

His attacker cried out, dropping something that glinted from the light of the moon before it disappeared into the snow. John was so profoundly startled by the realization of his anxieties that he didn’t notice the second assailant. Thick arms went under his, and they locked their fingers behind his head, keeping his upper body immobile. 

In retaliation for the blow to his comrade, the man wrenched John’s shoulders. John yelled at the pain, but felt nothing dislocate. The other man had either located his lost weapon or had pulled another one from his person, because John saw the point of the dagger as the man stalked forward.

“You’re going to pay for that, little aristrocrat,” the man snarled. 

John didn’t waste his breath on a retort. He stomped hard on his captor’s instep, and rolled the man forward when he keeled from the pain. The man holding the dagger stepped back to avoid stabbing his accomplice. John took advantage of his hesitation. 

Since he had no knowledge of where his carriage was or if he would be aided by strangers, his only option was to fight until they were out of commission. 

John couldn’t even muster a slight tinge of remorse when he kicked the downed man hard in the groin. The knife wielder regained his wits, but not enough of them to give him much sense, as he tried to jump over the whimpering man to get at John.

John stepped into his space before he could regain his footing. With his shorter stature he landed a swift and hard blow to the man’s stomach. He felt the wind leave the man’s body, and the way his arms went slack told John he’d either dropped the weapon again or he’d been compelled into unconsciousness. 

He tossed the body away from himself, where it landed in a heap along the road. John crouched low, ready to rush the second man who was slowly lumbering upwards, but halted when the man held his hands out in surrender.

“It’s not worth it, it’s not worth it!” The man blubbered. “This was all a mistake, a big mistake. We just needed the money! Let us leave, please!”

John frowned, but nodded. The man had conceded defeat, and John would be the worst sort of scoundrel to attack now. 

“Take your man and go. But know I’ll be giving your descriptions to the authorities at the earliest convenience.”

The man picked up his friend, who was slowly coming around, and laughed like John had invoked the bleakest of gallows humor. “Trust me, we’ll be long gone by then.” They both shambled down the street without another word.

John felt the rush of the fight linger in his system, so he paced a few times to soothe his heightened nerves. It was lucky that his husband shouted his name before approaching, for if he’d been any closer John would have struck him in surprise. 

“John!” Sherlock yelled, running up to him like they’d been parted for months rather than hours. “Are you alright? I heard fighting.” 

“I’m fine Sherlock, but what are you doing here? I thought you wouldn’t have taken note of my absence until the morning.” 

“I told you, this place is dreadfully dull. When you weren’t back after several hours to bemoan about the boredom I became worried.” Sherlock’s eyes took in his husband’s appearance with what little bit the moonlight allowed him to see, and even in the pitch night John could make out his darkening expression.

“You were in a brawl just now.” His face lifted to see the disappearing figures of the two men who were still leaning against each other. John thought he saw Sherlock’s teeth bared in a snarl. Shock stabbed through John’s heart at the sight. Sherlock had delivered the occasional dry-as-bone repartee to people who had annoyed him, or had cuttingly deconstructed fallacies of logic to their most basic layers. He had never, as long as John had known him, given evidence to a violent characteristic. 

Yet that was what John saw. He saw bloodlust in the dim reflection of that icy gaze. Inexplicably, John almost could not recognize his own husband. A quick revival of his senses caused him to stop Sherlock from pursuing the bandits with a restraining hand on his arm. 

“No, Sherlock, it is done. They received as much as they gave.”

It was then that Sherlock truly seemed to see John. He stepped back, keeping his hands on John’s shoulders, as if he couldn’t bear to be more than a touch away. His gaze roamed over John, and with wonder he said, “You fought all of them off yourself.”

John was flattered, but didn’t think that the praise was justified. “Did you think I grew up in London completely idle in my house? Come on, let’s get back home.” 

However, the steadily rising winds and the thick sheets of snow soon cancelled those plans. Sherlock had travelled by a single horse in his urge for swiftness, and Hope was still nowhere to be found. 

Thankfully Sherlock had no trouble finding accommodations. There was an inn next to the bar with decent stables. The inn keeper had all but tripped over herself to make sure they were comfortable when she realized who was walking through the door. 

“I don’t care about the size of the room,” Sherlock had said when she’d tried to put them in the largest suite, “just make sure we’re as far from any other residents as possible.”

John had applied that odd request to a need for privacy. They lived far enough away from everyone else, and Sherlock had admitted it was often hard for him to communicate with others. John remembered his husband’s narrow face illuminated by the moon, the fury on his features making him the perfect likeness to a Horseman of War. John shook away that comparison with a stern reprimand to himself. Sherlock had been worried for him, had sought him out in the middle of the freezing night, to find that his concerns had been well founded. Of course he’d be enraged. 

John had just started to unbutton his shirt, his mind in turmoil, when he turned around and saw that Sherlock was already naked. John’s fingers stopped moving. It wasn’t that John was new to coitus with his husband. They’d engaged in illicit activities before their wedding day, though they were discreet and brief. 

Yet the sight of Sherlock nude and unashamed continued to take his breath away. Sherlock noticed his dumbstruck look, and smirked at it. He stepped forward into John’s space, lifting his unmoving hands away from his shirt. 

He tilted John’s face up with both hands cupping his cheeks. John expected a kiss, but Sherlock just continued to look at him, as if he were committing his features to memory. 

“I almost lost you tonight,” Sherlock whispered. John’s heart clenched with sympathy. How could he have ever thought Sherlock was capable of destructive violence when he held John so tenderly? 

“You didn’t,” John reminded him, leaning into the touch. He brought up a hand to cover Sherlock’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It would take more than a few ruffians to lay me low.” 

Sherlock smiled and said, “I’m beginning to see that.” He leaned in and kissed John softly. 

With the press of their lips growing firmer in response to a rise in passion, John understood why Sherlock had requested a room far away from other patrons. He smiled at the revelation. Sherlock kissed his teeth as a result and drew back snickering. 

His long fingers trailed down John’s neck. John shivered from the rise of gooseflesh, although he couldn’t decide if it was from the clinging chill on his skin or anticipation. Sherlock quickly unbuttoned the front of John’s shirt and pulled it off of him without preamble. 

John exhaled in a burst when the tug sent him into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s hands came up to grip John’s arms, and they stared at each other for a long moment. Then they were back to kissing, and the tenderness from before was replaced with urgency. Both of them nipped the other in playful reciprocity, until their mouths were flushed and plumped. 

John had been steered towards the bed unknowingly, and Sherlock pushed him onto it. John yelped in surprise which transformed into a half-hearted scowl at his amused husband. Sherlock crawled onto the bed to kiss his way up John’s torso in apology. By the time he reached John’s neck, he was pulled up by his curled hair onto John’s eager lips.

Sherlock growled at John’s daring. His hands moved down to John’s clothed groin, and covered the erection with his palm. John’s breathing stuttered across Sherlock’s cheek. He smiled toothily. His fingers found the strained fasteners and deftly opened them. Instead of pulling down the trousers like John expected, Sherlock curled his fingers over John’s cock and began to stroke. 

John’s breathing hitched. He clutched Sherlock’s bicep to steady himself. He felt the movements of Sherlock’s muscles as he worked him to completion, and that sensation carved spiraling patterns of lust under his skin.

Not to be outdone, John reached for Sherlock’s thickening length. When he encircled him in his fist, Sherlock bit his shoulder in what was possibly meant to be a retaliation. It only spurred John on. He brought his hand back up to lick his palm. Sherlock’s full body tremor against him proved that he’d seen the action. 

Before he could reach for Sherlock again, his wrist was caught, and brought down his own trousers. The familiar sensation of his own hand on his member, but being directed by another man, was alluringly erotic. 

As Sherlock manipulated his spit slick hand, John couldn’t help but remark, “We’ll overtax my clothes this way.” 

Sherlock groaned impatiently. He released John long enough to tug the rest of his clothes off with a few short pulls. Once again John’s hands were caught and pinned above his head. 

John thrusted his hips up in response. He managed to momentarily brush his erection against Sherlock’s and both men keened from the frustration. 

“Impatient,” Sherlock chastised as he laid his body flush against John’s. Finally, the craving of their skin was being satisfied. 

“Hah,” John huffed, squirming under Sherlock’s hold, “how hypocritical of you.” 

Sherlock chuckled at John’s cheek. He shifted his hips down, and both of their smiles turned to moans. John’s spit and their precome mixed together between their bodies. It was still far from a smooth glide. Often they ended up thrusting against the other’s belly or the crease in their hips. 

Despite the erraticism, Sherlock didn’t release John’s wrists to try and hold them together. John bucked and moaned, but made no effort to free himself aside from a token struggle. 

John could feel their hearts beating against each other from how close they were pressed together. Sherlock nuzzled John’s temple, and began to whisper words he could barely make out. They sounded very similar to “I love you,” and, “You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.”

It was that, combined with the teasing promise of release, that pushed John over the edge. As John quivered, Sherlock ground his hips down twice more before coming with him. 

As they came back to themselves, John noted the tackiness to his skin from the dried sweat and come with some distaste. Before he could even think about how he was going to discreetly request some washing water of the maid, Sherlock said, “On the bedside table. There’s a small bowl and a rag. You didn’t notice because you became...distracted.” 

John didn’t need the light of a candle to know of the smug expression his husband was trying to hide in his pillow. He rolled his eyes, and playfully smacked Sherlock’s bared back. 

“Well, as always, Sherlock, I am grateful at your thorough foresight,” John said as he promptly wiped himself down. 

Sherlock hummed from the bed, “I was very clear about my requests. A shame though. We didn’t get a chance to use the vaseline.” 

John’s heart beat before he felt his face flush. Well, if the owner didn’t have assumptions about their activities before, she certainly did now. 

“I cannot believe your audacity,” John chided as he slid back into bed. Sherlock’s arm came up to tug him close. 

“Hmm, and yet you married me,” Sherlock said. It sounded quite casual, yet there was a tone to it that suggested a deep disbelief with his own statement. 

John regarded him for a moment. He sighed as though he was incredibly saintly to endure such a burden and said, “That I did.” He kissed Sherlock on the nose before falling asleep. John didn’t miss the smile on his face. 

~~~

A separate carriage arrived for them the next morning after they’d eaten a hearty breakfast in their bed. For a moment, John pictured them living a life of simple marital bliss. He certainly had no complaints about his current lifestyle, but with the mansion so large and empty, it was nice to be involved in something so much smaller and domestic. 

It was when they stepped out to the carriage that John remembered something vitally important. 

“Curse me to the Seven Hells,” John said with so much emphasis that Sherlock was clearly startled, “I forgot entirely about Mr. Hope! Sherlock, we can’t go back yet, we have to search for him!”

For a confusing moment, John thought he saw Sherlock’s eyes narrow. Then the anger was gone, and John mistook it for the ever shifting shadows of the cloudy winter day. 

“Don’t worry John,” Sherlock soothed. He steered John towards the carriage with a hand on his back as he explained, “I’ll be sure to take care of everything.” 

“Sherlock, really,” John insisted, stopping in his tracks. “It’s my fault he’s gone. I didn’t come to check on him and he probably got into trouble with those same thugs I came across. They might’ve tried to rob him and some other ghastly business occurred. We truly need to-”

“Be at ease John, I promise I will take care of everything back at the mansion. There are resources there that I can use that I can’t here. Besides, he could have ridden home in drunken confusion last night. Anyone that would’ve seen the carriage out of place would have come forward by now.”

John hesitated and allowed, “I suppose you could be right. Just as long as it’s taken care of as soon as possible.” 

Sherlock nodded, and they set off back for the house. 

When they arrived, Jim was waiting to greet them. He was smiling from ear to ear. 

John exited the carriage with a hesitant smile of his own. “It’s good to see you Jim, especially considering the night we’ve had.” 

“Yes, I can see that,” Jim said, eyeing John up and down, “got into a bit of a tussle I see? Well I’m glad our dear Sherlock was here to save you.” 

Sherlock hopped down from the ride. His look was slightly more hostile, though John had no idea why. Sherlock opened his mouth, but John couldn’t help but point something out to Jim first.

“Actually, Moriarty, although your powers of observation are just as impressive as my husband’s, there’s one point that I must correct you on.”

“Oh,” Jim’s eyebrow rose up, “and what’s that Johnny?”

“Sherlock didn’t save me. The ruffians were already running with their tails tucked by the time Sherlock found me.”

Both of Jim’s eyebrows climbed, “You…fought off two vagabonds by yourself?”

John grinned, pleased to see that he had caught Jim unawares. “I am eager to know how you knew there were two. But yes, that is entirely correct. Apparently two lowlifes were no match for one half-aristocrat who used to occupy his time in the less savory boxing rings.” 

Jim didn’t answer for a long time. “Well, the answer is all over your clothes Johnny. Along with other things. It warms my heart to see you two so…active after the honeymoon period.”

John flushed, and looked down at his coat. Sherlock stepped up beside him to say, “There’s nothing on you John, he’s only being crass.” 

“Oh, pish-posh Sherlock, it’s a compliment. You know that. You appear to be awfully testy today.”

“I’ve had a very unpredictable and long night Moriarty. And recent developments have progressed quite unexpectedly.”

“No, they haven’t. Not if you’d been paying attention.” 

The two shared strained smiles with one another before John finally asked, “Is…something wrong?”

“Moriarty is referring to the fact that I knew about the string of violent robbers that had been happening in the town. I apologize, John. I didn’t inform you because I didn’t want to frighten you needlessly. Apparently, I need not have worried about your safety.”

“No,” Jim said speculatively. He turned his head to stare at the man in question, “It appears you were quite wrong about our dear Johnny’s capabilities Sherlock.”

“I underestimated him. A mistake that I am loathed to repeat again. I’m certain you share the sentiment.” 

Despite Sherlock’s unnaturally scathing tone, Jim hadn’t stopped looking at John. “I believe I do,” Moriarty said. “Well then, I hope the dreadful business will be dealt with as soon as possible.”

“Actually,” John said, completely thrown by the strange conversation, “that reminds me Jim. Have you happened to see Mr. Hope today? I left him outside of the pub and now he’s disappeared. After last night’s events, I think it’s not out of line to be concerned.” 

“No, of course not Johnny,” Jim soothed, “I’ll have a search sent out for Mr. Hope right away. Along with those dastardly devils that tried to accost you last night. We’ll set everything to rights soon, don’t worry.” 

Jim moved forward as if to embrace him. John was surprised by the gesture, as Jim was affectionate in words rather than actions. But Sherlock stepped in before Jim could get close to say, “John’s had a trying night. I believe it’s best he gets his rest.”

Jim stared at Sherlock before he beamed and said, “Of course! How silly of me. You should get your rest John. You may be entirely capable of holding your own, but you should go receive your well-deserved rest. Lord knows Sherlock’s tired you out enough,” Jim shared a wink with John that was borderline lewd. 

John felt himself blush and said, “Uh, yes. Thank you. Some time by the library fire sounds lovely actually.”

He hurried away, missing whatever Sherlock said to Jim in a low and growled tone. 

~~~

It was two tense days before John heard any information about Hope or the two thieves. “The two criminals have been found, and sentenced to hang for their crimes,” Sherlock told him as soon as he learned of the news, “I’m afraid Hope had become too overcome by drink. They found him in a ditch, frozen to death this morning. I’m so sorry John. He seemed to have been trying to find the way home before he got lost out in nature’s grasp.” 

John had been immensely saddened by the news, on both accounts. He hadn’t thought that the vagrants were innocent saints, but they had mentioned being desperate for money. John understood those struggles, and knew there was little a man would do to raise himself from such hardship. 

He confessed his thoughts to Sherlock, who was both fond and reprimanding of John’s forgiving nature. “It fills me with pride to know you have such an honest and kind heart my husband, but I often worry that it will be your ruin one day.” 

John had smiled wanly, knowing it was more of a compliment than an admonishment. Still, he had not been satisfied with Sherlock’s dismissal. How could he feel right about this when three men were dead, and he had been in the center of it? 

To clear his head, John went to the greenhouse. The sound of the snow on the glass and the smell of green life usually gave him much respite. Now, the sight of vivid flowers in the middle of such barren cold only seemed to serve as a metaphor for his pleasant circumstances, while the rest of the world suffered.

“Looks like someone has a very tumultuous mind,” Jim said from beside him. John jumped slightly and Jim laughed at the sight. “Sorry Johnny, I happened to be up keeping my little pet project before you strode in.” 

John looked behind him to see the lock to the side area unmoved, and Jim’s shoulders slightly dusted with snow. He smiled a little wanly and said, “Did Sherlock send you to check up on me?”

Jim grinned a little wider, “Well spotted Johnny, but no. I happened to see you head towards the greenhouse close to the middle of the night and thought you could use some company. Unless you would prefer I-” He made a motion as if to move towards the door. 

“No, please stay. I would actually like your advice on something.” 

“Always glad to assist our resident golden boy. What’s been troubling you?”

“I found out about Hope and the two men who accosted me. I’ve been profoundly affected by their fates.”

“Why?” Jim asked in genuine curiosity, “Two of them sought to cause you harm, and the other you barely knew. Why should their deaths affect you so?”

For a moment, John was overcome by outrage, “Of course it matters! All life matters!” 

“But does caring about them bring them back from the dead? Does it stop the two men from attacking you, thereby sealing their fates? Does it stop Jefferson Hope from being too fond of the bottle, and dying from exposure in a ditch?”

“No, of course it doesn’t do that,” John tersely said, “If caring could resurrect the dead, Harry would have walked through the door the moment I heard of her passing.” 

“Then why let it bother you? With every certainty, I can tell you that that’s all that people do Johnny. They die.”

“I suppose it’s easy for you then, to apply that cold logic to the lives and tribulations of every person around you?”

“It is actually,” Jim said with chilling surety, “does this news surprise you?”

After a long moment John admitted, “Yes, it does.”

Jim looked incredibly surprised by that, “Why? You know both Sherlock and I favor logic above sentiment. Just because Sherlock is smitten with you doesn’t mean we place a great deal of emphasis on the fleeting nature of human life.”

John sighed in frustration. “It’s because that I believe you both are equally capable of goodness as you are in greatness.” 

Jim laughed without mirth, “Placing us on the side of angels is a grievous blunder John.”

“You don’t have to be saints to qualify for decency Moriarty. Besides which, you’ve already let slip your own callous façade.”

“Oh? How so?”

“You came out here to console me out of your own free will. There is no stronger evidence you could have presented me that suggests your capacity for sympathy.”

Jim looked as though he had been struck. Before he could respond, the door to the greenhouse slammed open. Sherlock ran through the entrance, panting and pale. There was a wild look in his eyes as he looked between the two of them. He breathed deeply, and suddenly the gleam was gone.

“There you are Jim. When I couldn’t find you I thought…I’m afraid I require your assistance with a matter back in the mansion.” 

“Rather late for work to be getting done Sherlock,” Jim admonished. He rocked on his feet like a schoolboy getting caught skipping class. 

“It’s rather urgent, if you wouldn’t mind,” Sherlock firmly said. He looked at John apologetically, who waved it away.

“It’s alright, I understand. Let me know if you require my help in anyway.” He turned to Jim, “I think I will take your advice, even if it was insensitive, under consideration. My feelings cannot undo what has already occurred, nor does it diminish the gravitas of their deaths. I thank you for your guidance,” he smiled ruefully, “even if it was callously presented.”

Jim blinked before he smiled softly, “You are more than welcome John.” He strode off towards Sherlock with a lighter gait. Sherlock stared at Jim in an odd combination of astonished and suspicious. 

He gave John a brief, “I shall see you tonight,” and closed the door behind him. 

John gave himself a moment to reflect on how strange his new husband and housemate were. Genius was often paired with eccentricity he supposed. Lord knew that the both of them could outsmart the Devil if it ever became an option. 

He sat amongst the flowers, listening to the gentle patter of snowfall. Very soon, his acknowledgment of his luck and privilege no longer felt like an ill-gotten gift, but a genuine blessing. 

~~~

After that, John couldn’t help but feel some pride at the effect he’d had on Jim’s mindset. For that was the only explanation he could ascertain for Moriarty’s persistent presence. He found John eating alone in the dining hall when Sherlock was occupied, he entertained John with stories of Sherlock and his early partnership, he joined him in the library in quiet companionship while they read.

Slowly, John got to know the other eccentric resident of the Baker estate. He hadn’t realized until Jim continued to talk to him how little he had known about the man. Soon they had become unlikely friends. Jim was even a pseudo-tutor to John’s medical studies.

“If one doesn’t know where to begin, one can hardly be expected to learn anything,” Jim had explained in his offer for tutelage, “fortunately for you, I happen to know quite a thing or two about human anatomy.”

Jim had been right. John gained a far more comprehensive knowledge about the medical field than he would have if he had been left to his own devices. 

With their growing camaraderie, Jim proved to be more tactile than John would have suspected. He often linked arms with John on their outdoor strolls when the weather permitted it. He laid a hand on John’s shoulder when he leaned over to read from the same medical guide. There was even more than one occurrence of brushing hands when they passed each other the sugar dish for tea. 

The only person who wasn’t pleased by this development was Sherlock. “Moriarty has never been amiable with others. Often times he can only stand me because I match his intellect.”

“That seems a bit harsh,” John rebuked, “he has been nothing but amicable since I’ve met him. Perhaps a tad conversationally distant, but he’s always been a gentleman with a touch of sharp humor.” 

Sherlock scoffed his doubt aloud. He seemed ready to delve further into the subject before Moriarty strode through the door.

“Johnny, there you are! I just received a new deck of playing cards and thought you might join me in a game. Let’s see if your bad habits of betting on yourself in the ring also extended to poker.”

John wasn’t above feeling a little smug about the timing. It was only amplified from Sherlock’s sour expression. The man collected himself to try and intervene, “Perhaps I could join-” 

“No need,” Jim trilled, “I know how busy you are Sherlock. What with the whole shipment thing in the Andes you’re so keen about.”

“The Himalayas,” Sherlock ground out. 

“Yes, that one. Anyway, you’re closing in on negotiations or some such right? About to make a big breakthrough with the trading company? Don’t let John and I distract you, we can find ways to occupy the time, can’t we John?”

John was about to contribute to the harmless banter, when he heard the small snap of wood. He gaped at Sherlock’s pen, now broken beyond repair. 

“Sherlock, really,” John chided, “you’re acting childish. I know you’re busy, and Jim makes good company. Come join us when you’re finished.”

He marched out the door, passing by Jim who was bouncing on his heels and grinning at Sherlock with glee. John would have withdrawn his agreement to the game at the petty display, but he had a point to make.

Jim had finally warmed up to him aside from the occasional pleasantry. He was going to show his husband that there was absolutely nothing suspect with Jim’s intentions. At this point, he was going to make a friend out of James Moriarty if it was the last thing he did on God’s green earth.

John had been distracted by his ire towards Sherlock that he had barely heard the stakes of the game. By the end, he’d nearly forgotten the matter entirely and enjoyed a pleasant evening of light competition. 

Later that night, he was reminded of his husband’s strange mood. He had been deep in slumber when the familiar weight and scent of Sherlock’s body across his gently woke him. John blearily blinked up at Sherlock, who was busy undoing his nightclothes. 

“You were right,” Sherlock admitted. John’s wakefulness almost fully returned at those words, considering their rarity. 

“I’ve been ghastly. I’m not used to Jim taking an interest in anyone, and it surprised me. Especially considering that his attentions are on you.” John’s irritation returned full force, and he was about to kick Sherlock out of their bed before he continued, “I should have predicted it though. Lord knows you are the most luminous creature I’ve ever met. You draw in souls like moths to candlelight.”

John couldn’t stand the thought of being angry with him after that. He proceeded to assist Sherlock in his own undressing. Soon they were two heated bodies twisted together atop the sheets. Sherlock pulled away to get the vaseline they stored in their nightstand. 

John recalled the request Sherlock had made of the hotel, and laughed at the sight of the small bottle. “Good, you remembered its existence this time.” Sherlock smiled at the shared memory before crawling back on top of John. 

“Believe me, it would take an unearthly force to make me forget this time,” Sherlock promised against John’s lips. His slicked fingers fell between their bodies, and John felt the slow intrusion sweetly open him. He gasped against Sherlock’s mouth. He wished he could feel irritation at the smug hum his husband made, but he was too consumed with sensation to care. 

Sherlock’s preparation of his body felt close to glacially slow. John writhed on the sheets, knowing the man loved it when he saw John lost in abandon. He refused to hurry, the long fingers stroking inside of him until John was mad with need. 

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was raspy with want, “I’m ready.” Sherlock paid him no heed. He only bent his head down to kiss and bite along John’s neck and collarbone. 

John growled in impatience. He gripped his husband’s arms to hasten the thrusts, but only then did he realize that with Sherlock’s weight pinning him to the bed, he had no leverage to speak of. He moaned in frustration, his twitching hips were unable to grant him the pace he desired. Stretched and aching, John was kept this way until he thought his skin was the only thing that kept him from flying apart. 

When Sherlock’s fingers pulled away, John keened from the loss. Until he felt the familiar heat and length of his husband’s prick against his waiting body. John’s hands scrambled to Sherlock’s shoulders. He eagerly braced himself, murmuring agreements and pleas with every slow inch that made its way inside of him. Sherlock’s cock rested fully inside, and John waited for the thrusts that would push his pleasure into sublime territory. He didn’t move.

If John could raze the building with his voice, he would have then. His body shook with caged energy. He was saying words he didn’t register, but clearly Sherlock understood him, for he laughed and pressed placating kisses to his face. 

“So passionate, as in all things,” Sherlock observed. John took a petty glee in hearing the tremor in those words. It was nice to know that Sherlock wasn’t unaffected by John’s eagerness even if he did nothing to satiate it. “Say you’re mine,” Sherlock requested. 

In confusion, John blinked the sweat from his eyes to look the other man in the face, “What?”

“Say that you are mine, John, and I will move.” 

John huffed, and tried to see if he could thrust himself upwards to spite him. All he managed was an ineffectual wiggle that only intensified his desire. John’s head hit his pillow, and he murmured curses at any deity who had gifted him both such a wonderful and maddening man.

“Fine, yes, blast it all, I am yours. I have been and always will be yours now will you please just bloody-” his words turned to a gasp of surprise. Sherlock wasted no time in finally fulfilling John’s pleading. 

While John’s stretching had been languid, his taking was relentless. It wasn’t quick or brutal, but it was unrelenting. Every roll of Sherlock’s hips teased him with the promise of satisfaction. There were bright moments that sparked inside of him that faded as quick as lightning, and then reappeared again and again. John’s nails dug into Sherlock’s back. He could feel the skin denting under his hold, but Sherlock gave no protest. It only seemed to galvanize him, and he plunged deeper into John’s eager body. 

There were words spilling from the both of them. It was hard for John to hear his own speech, for he was left breathless in every moment. Words of ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ floated up above their bodies, interspersed amongst their grunts and moans. 

John could feel his climax looming. It dangled just out of his reach, a yawning chasm of pleasure that threatened to unmake him. He knew Sherlock held the key to his release, for John couldn’t seem to muster the motivation to move his hands from Sherlock’s back. 

“Yours,” John nearly yelled, hoarse with the volume and his continual moaning, “I’m yours Sherlock.” 

The man shuddered up above him. His hips rested against the curve of John’s arse, and he went abruptly still. The rush of wet heat inside of him gave John the final push into oblivion. 

The sound of their heavy breathing brought John slowly back to his senses. The sweat and release of their bodies made the touching skin a sticky and uncomfortable affair. John couldn’t stop the lazy smile that spread across his face.

He shifted underneath Sherlock who eventually moved off of him with much grumbling. Ever thankful for their private washroom, John collected a warm and damp towel to bring back to their bed. Judging by the way his legs were already stiff and the deep ache of his bottom, tomorrow would be an endurance. He couldn’t find it within himself to care.

He cleaned himself off first, and tossed the rag to Sherlock who jerked as the damp cloth hit his back. John giggled as he climbed into bed. As Sherlock cleaned himself he asked, “A shock to the system is the thanks I receive for satisfying you so thoroughly?” 

John’s grin didn’t falter for a moment. “Be thankful I got us a towel at all. I would have gladly left you in your own filth and gone to sleep, but I want to remove the sheets from my body in the morning without taking my skin with it.” 

Sherlock laughed. “We did make a mess of ourselves didn’t we?” Instead of it sounding like a complaint, Sherlock appeared immeasurably pleased by it. 

John said, “We always do. Yet I wouldn’t alter it for anything.” 

Sherlock beamed at him, “Neither would I.”

John lightly smacked Sherlock’s chest as he felt his face warm. “Enough sweet nothings, I’m exhausted.”

“Oh? I wonder how that occurred?”

“You’re impossible. Go to sleep.”

“Your commands are my pleasure to fulfill, my oh so demanding spouse.” Sherlock turned onto his side, and held John close. As John faced away and began to let his drowsiness overcome him, Sherlock quietly asked, “Did you mean it?”

John mumbled back, “Did I mean what?” 

“That you’re mine.”

At first, John’s eyes opened to stare into their dark room. He said nothing. He reached up to one of the hands that cradled him, and pulled it up to his mouth. He kissed a pale wrist and said, “Every word of it.”

~~~

John wasn’t in his room. He knew that. It was just as dark, but it was filled with the smell of wet earth. His hands brushed along the crumbling walls. He felt chitinous things skitter across his skin while roots brushed his hair. 

He didn’t know where he was going, but knew that it was down. Down and down he treaded, unafraid of the unfamiliar blackness and cloistering tunnels.

After a time that could have been an instant or an eternity, he emerged from the earth. It wasn’t until then he realized he was only the size of a mole, with the stone walls looming larger than the Sistine Chapel around him. 

Each forward step he took he grew larger until he was at last his normal height. Without ever having seen it before, he knew where he was. It was the sewage system below the Baker Estate. 

A whispering voice echoed off of the walls, “Down, down with the filth is where I am. Down, down with the filth is where I’ll be.”

John looked for the source of the noise and found a woman crouched low to the ground. The room was brighter than the sunless earth, but still dim. Still, John knew it was his sister’s apparition.

“Harry?” John called out, finally feeling the beginnings of fear.

“Down, down with the filth is where I am. Down, down with the filth is where I’ll be.”

“Harry, it’s John,” he said hesitatingly. _This is a dream_ he thought to himself. He knew that to be true, but if there was a chance he could talk to his sister, then he wanted to try, no matter the validity of the sentiment. 

The figure stopped rocking and whispering. Her head cocked to the side, and John saw the silhouette of her profile under her shroud. “John? You shouldn’t be in the filth.”

John felt his heart ache. “Neither should you.”

Harry moaned in despair, “Oh but I am. This is where I am and this is where I’ll be.” 

“It doesn’t have to be. Come with me to the surface Harry. Maybe you will get better there,” the words left John’s mouth without his knowledge or understanding of their meaning. But they felt right to say.

She shuddered. His words were ignored, or they slid through her awareness like an unwary step on smooth ice. “I’m so thirsty John. Won’t you have a drink with me?” 

John didn’t register her words until she began to crawl towards the sludge beside them. Aghast, John rushed forward. “Harry, no!”

“The filth is where I am,” Harry chanted as her hands reached for the disgusting muck. “I’m just disgusting filth John. I couldn’t protect you. I’ll always be filth. I’m so thirsty. I couldn’t protect you.” 

John reached for her arm and pulled her back before she touched the water. “Harry, please, you’re not filth. I miss you, come with me to the surface.”

Her head slowly craned up. As her other hand raised towards her veil, John saw exposed bone under her flaking paper skin. He refused to let her go in case she made another move for the disease-rich river. 

When she ripped the sheer fabric away, John let out a startled yell and recoiled. Harry’s mouth was gaping wide with an unhinged jaw, stuffed to the brim with red berries. “I’m so thirsty John,” she somehow spoke around the fruit. Each seed fell from her mouth like frozen drops of blood, “I’m so thirsty.” She pushed herself up with supernatural strength, and shoved John to the ground. Her rotten eye sockets stared down into him as she raved, “Let me drink! Let me be filth!”

Her finger bones came up to his eyes and began to press hard.

~~~

John awoke with a gasp. Cold sweat made the sheets cling to his back as he sat up. He blinked rapidly to bring his room into focus. A fire blazed on the other side, which casted everything into flickering shadows that did nothing to soothe his nerves. Sherlock was gone from the bed, and the curtains held back the faint glow of predawn. Slowly, John’s breathing evened out until he could no longer hear his heart beating in his head.

Another vision of his ghostly sister. When their father had died, all John had seen was his beaten face reflected in decanters and whiskey bottles. He wondered if the intensity was reflective of his love for his sibling over his father. If that was true, John darkly hoped that he would die before Sherlock, lest he go mad with the consequences.

He pulled himself out of bed to immediately wince at the soreness that made itself known. No matter the preparations Sherlock had thoroughly bestowed him, such aches couldn’t be avoided. He sighed and resigned himself to catching up on medical books while he recovered.

Dressing himself and walking down to the kitchens were pains he could tolerate. It wasn’t until he saw Jim skimming the papers over coffee that a new kind of discomfort revealed itself. John felt obliged to keep himself from revealing too much indecency to his new friend, when John knew he shared just as much, if not more, observational skills as his husband. 

He was seriously considering just hiding in the library when Jim looked up from his reading. “Morning Johnny! Care to join me for breakfast?”

John inwardly cursed but replied pleasantly with, “Certainly. Though I wouldn’t call a cup of coffee suitable sustenance.”

“Ah, nonsense, it’s worked for me all these years. But you certainly require more hardy fare yes? I believe the cooks left something for you when you awoke. Join me and sit, I’ll retrieve it.”

Normally John would have gotten it himself, but he seized the opportunity for distraction. “Thank you Jim, that’s very considerate of you.” 

As soon as he made his way to the table however, Jim immediately took notice of something amiss and said, “Are you injured? You’re limping.” 

John fought the instinctual urge to flush. He could practically hear the old Harry cackling in delight in his head. “Oh, I’m fine. It’s an old boxing injury. It acts up in the weather.” He gestured towards the window that displayed a perfectly sunny sky.

Jim raised an eyebrow. Then his face slid into one of practiced placidity. “…Boxing injury. Of course. Have a seat Johnny, wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.” 

Although Jim gave no indication to the contrary, John couldn’t help but feel like he hadn’t fooled the man at all. In his haste to sit down, he misjudged his pace and caused every aching part of him to flare. John bit down a cry as his body went rigid. 

The sharp sound of ceramic shattering startled John. He looked over to find Jim staring at his broken cup. “Jim, are you alright?” John began to rise to aid the man before he was stopped.

“Don’t-” Jim snapped before he breathed deeply through his nose. He looked up with a perfectly jovial smile, “Don’t worry about it Johnny. I’ll ring someone to come clean it. We have plenty of cups. Let’s get you sorted first.”

He turned around to display his rigid posture. John was about to stand up and help sweep it away regardless, when Sherlock strode through the door. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock addressed no one in particular. 

He seemed to almost skip to John, beaming as if he had just been pronounced the new king of Britain. “Have you had breakfast? I didn’t mean to leave you this morning, I had some affairs to take care of.” 

“It’s fine,” John said tensely. He couldn’t explain it properly, but he felt that Sherlock’s presence was making the entire situation far worse. “We were just about to start eating.”

“Marvelous,” Sherlock said, turning towards Jim who hadn’t moved to get the food. “If there’s enough for two John can have mine, he’s a bit taxed from last night.”

John would have gladly joined his wailing sister in the sewers if it meant his escape from this nightmare. 

“Oh?” Jim lightly questioned as he finally moved towards the oven that had been keeping the food warm. “Why is that?”

Sherlock opened his mouth before John said, “He was teaching me self-defense. After the attack he’s been aiding me in honing the techniques I already know. He’s been very _helpful_ that way,” John deliberately stressed while staring at Sherlock. The man didn’t speak. He only continued to grin at Jim.

Moriarty asked John, “I thought you said you were aching from the weather?” 

Sherlock failed to hide his snort behind a cough. “Right,” John agreed, glaring at his husband’s back, “that exacerbated everything.”

“I see,” Jim said delicately as he brought John’s warm plate over along with a carafe. “Well, unfortunately I just remembered some business that I have to attend to on my own. I’m sure I’ll see you later Johnny.”

“Certainly,” John nodded, and thought the situation thoroughly defused. Until Sherlock opened his mouth to say, “John really can’t get up to anything else in his state.”

Jim grinned at Sherlock. John was reminded of a picture he’d seen of the braying animals deemed hyenas. Jim left without a word.

As soon as he was out of hearing distance John smacked Sherlock’s hip. “Did you really have to be so juvenile about it?”

Sherlock smiled down at John. He reached over to snag a slice of toast from John’s plate. “You genuinely have no concept of how much I truly needed to do that.”

John huffed, but busied himself with eating instead of arguing. He wasn’t done being annoyed at his husband. This odd and childish feud for his attention needed to be stopped. But Jim was a grown man, and he could get over the discovery that he and Sherlock did indeed consummate their marriage quite regularly. 

He looked up at Sherlock again, who hadn’t lost his pleased expression, and couldn’t stop the giggle muffled around his food. 

~~~

The rivalry only seemed to grow from then on. Every time John turned around, one of them was there to occupy his time with games, conversation, or tea. Shortly after the invitation however, he was either pulled away by his husband or his husband was pulled away by Jim to attend some ‘urgent matter’. There was even one instance where he’d overheard the both of them arguing loudly in their study as he’d passed by, and he’d heard his name mentioned once or twice. He tried to put a stop to it by speaking with Sherlock.

“I don’t know why you two are acting this way, but you are friends and professional partners. You should behave as such! Fighting over my attention makes no sense in any form. I am not a toy for two boys to pull apart.”

Sherlock had acted chagrined. He explained, “Jim told me why he has been anxious for your company. The only other person that he’s ever been able to speak with comfortably has been myself. Even then, we are almost too much alike for it to be a stimulating conversation. How can it be when we can both predict what the other will say? You’re the first man he’s ever met who not only stimulates him but also surprises him. He’s overtaken by the novelty of it.”

John blinked in shock. He had no idea that Jim had valued his company so highly. “Why does that bother you so?”

“His constant presence by your side was…is irksome to me. I understand that I am often occupied by my work. Yet he seeks your time even when I am free from other obligations. He would fill your schedule more so than your own husband, and before you object, I entirely believe it to be intentional. Jim has always been greedy.”

John sighed deeply. “Sherlock, I understand if you think that Jim has been trying to monopolize my time even if I disagree with you. No one ever wants to fight for attention from their lover. If, however, Jim is as unaccustomed to friendly companionship as you say, then maybe he is just lonely. I can also empathize with the excitement in finding a kindred soul.” He smiled in meaning at Sherlock. Normally such declarations softened the man, but he only seemed to become even more glum. 

“If what you say is true,” Sherlock said, “then there is nothing Jim would do to ever relinquish that feeling. It’s why I married you.”

John’s chest twinged in sympathy. He knew that Sherlock and Jim had only ever found solace in the other due to their massive minds. Such brilliance, and tendency to overlook conventional etiquette, must have made for isolated childhoods; the likes of which John could never hope to fully understand.

“I genuinely don’t know what to do John,” Sherlock confessed, “I find myself jealous of the one man who has been my constant companion, even if I am aware I have nothing to fear. Expressing my displeasure is upsetting to you and yet I can’t seem to stop. No matter the length of time, whenever he tears your attention from me, I feel a blistering rage I have not felt since I was young and petty. Asking for your sole attention is unforgivably selfish of me, I know this, but it is all I can think of. What am I meant to do in order to please both sides?”

Before John could answer, before he could even try to comfort his husband, a strange light entered Sherlock’s eyes. Without another word, he left the room. Dumbstruck, John stood there, wondering when his life had become such a bizarre ordeal. 

It wasn’t until later that evening, when all three of them were eating dinner, that the matter was finally resolved. Sherlock and Jim had been quiet, and John wasn’t sure how to break the tension. His husband’s words still rang in his ears. Until he could think of some way to overcome this obstacle, he was going to stay out of it. 

Then Jim opened his mouth to say, “Perhaps you could assist us in something John.” 

John nearly dropped his spoon from being startled. He looked at the man and nonchalantly questioned, “Oh?”

“You always seem to share unique insight with us when Sherlock and I face a business dilemma.” This was true. While John was no expert at trading or economics, he helped them both unlock problems by offering the simplest solution he could think of. Even if it was the wrong way of approaching things, it helped steer them in the right direction.

John looked back and forth between the two men. “I’m happy to help whenever I can.”

Jim grinned at him, “Oh we know. So, help us settle a little dispute Johnny. Sherlock and I both have an invested interest in a certain project. This is not just any small business venture. This is the coup-de-grace, the magnum opus if you will.”

John hid his grin by wiping at his mouth with a napkin. Politely, he nodded in understanding.

“Now, by a _minor_ technicality, this project was our clever Sherlock’s idea first,” the mentioned man did nothing except twitch at the emphasis, “he cultivated it and honed it. Therefore, he believes that he is entitled to see its completion independently. Personally, I think that’s a load of tripe. Sorry, sorry,” Jim held up his hands when Sherlock shifted pointedly.

“So our Sherlock has some mental possession in the matter. Fine. However, I am the one who put research into the venture. I did a great deal of dirty work, and I _never_ do dirty work. I also smoothed out any flaws present in the plan to reveal a prized aspect that not even dear Sherlock was aware of. I did all of this, and therefore, I argue, I also have a great deal invested in this project and it is just as much mine as it is his. We were wondering if you could aid us in settling who has more right to the project by virtue of your objective opinion.” 

John was having a very hard time keeping a neutral expression. The whole situation was so peculiar that it bordered on hilarity. Of course John knew what they were talking about. Why they were bothering to speak in metaphors was beyond him. A few of Jim’s ‘points’ escaped him in meaning, but he understood what they were aiming at all the same. 

John assumed he knew what Sherlock’s sudden departure earlier meant. He’d been unable to find a beneficial solution, so he’d turned to the only other person who could help him. Then, the both of them had decided that even with their combined minds they couldn’t resolve the situation satisfactorily. So they’d come to him as a last resort. John didn’t mind that he was the last card to be drawn from the deck. In a way, it flattered him that they thought so highly of his advice that they would come to him at all. 

He ate a few more bites of his dinner to savor the moment. When he was done, he looked up at the both of them and said, “I believe you should share involvement.” He wondered if they had truly expected a different answer.  
Jim had the decency to look surprised, “Really? It’s just that this project means so much on an individual level, surely only one person should have the privilege of…reaping the benefits?”

Sherlock spluttered so badly around his drink he began to cough. John eased his chair back but the man waved away his concern. Dubiously, John looked back at Jim but kept an awareness of Sherlock’s state.

“Quite the contrary. If the endeavor means so much to the both of you, then you should do as you always have done, and work together to achieve the award. You both are satisfied and come out as better men from the endeavor. You can’t honestly be implying that the thought never occurred to you both?”

Jim grinned at him. “You’re correct Johnny, it did. We merely required your insight to be certain of this avenue’s success.”

John nodded, pleased, “Right then. If the matter is thoroughly settled, I’m off to prepare for bed.”

“Actually,” Sherlock said, “I was hoping you would join Jim and I for an evening drink. Since the matter is settled, as you put it, I believe it’s cause for celebration to the end of our dispute.”

John was delighted, “Certainly. I’ll join you in the parlor after I’ve helped clean up.” 

When John was finished, he walked into the room to find a card game set up, along with a pot of tea. Sherlock looked up from pouring John a cup, “Since I missed the last card game, Jim thought engaging in a match would be an appropriate beginning to mending our partnership.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” John smiled, taking his seat. His cup was filled with a dull red liquid that smelled faintly sweet. “What is this,” he asked even while he brought it up to his lips. 

“Something I cultivated,” Jim answered, “Sherlock and I often like to partake in little pet projects, as you know. I’m trying my hand at breeding new strains of tea plants.”

John smirked and said, “Of course, this means I am to be your test subject for your new venture?”

Jim laughed, “Worry not John, if it wasn’t completely safe, Sherlock wouldn’t permit it within the house let alone allow you to drink it.”

Sherlock huffed, but didn’t disagree. 

John lifted his cup in a small salute and said, “Well then, cheers.” He sipped at the concoction. Just because he trusted Jim that it wouldn’t be harmful didn’t guarantee it would be palatable. Surprisingly, it was a lovely flavor. It shared the same earthiness of dark teas, but it was overshadowed with gentle flowery notes. Without asking, John knew his tea had been sweetened by Sherlock before he’d poured the liquid, but he doubted the drink even needed the sugar. 

“It’s very pleasant Jim! You should be proud,” he happily swallowed another mouthful, unaware of the way the other men’s shoulders relaxed.

“Believe me, your praise and enjoyment brings me no greater sense of accomplishment Johnny.” 

John hid his blush with another sip. He noticed something and asked, “Neither of you are having any?”

They both raised glasses of liquid amber. Sherlock said, “Something a bit stronger for us John. To symbolize our commitment to a stronger relationship.” 

John personally thought that was more saccharine than poetic, but he held his tongue. For the rest of the evening, they enjoyed their mended kinship and a good game of cards.

That night John had begun feeling rather flushed shortly after dinner, and drowsy as well. He’d gone to bed in lighter night clothes to combat his heated skin. 

Sherlock had expressed concern but John waved it away. “A light dizzy spell, nothing more,” he’d reassured Sherlock, “a good night’s sleep and I’ll be perfectly fine tomorrow.”

Yet sleep eluded him. Every time he felt himself begin to drift he was yanked back to alertness by his shivering body and hammering heart. Exhaustion, fever, and restlessness led to delusion, for at one point, John opened his eyes to find Jim sitting at the end of the bed. 

John believed he mumbled a greeting, or perhaps made a questioning noise, but darkness overtook him before he could hear Jim’s response. He awoke to a slight chill.

Long and pale fingers were undoing the buttons to his clothes with such deft assuredness that John felt the beginnings of arousal swirl behind his navel. 

“Looks like he’s back with us,” Jim drawled, prone beside John’s body. He trailed a hand down John’s skin and dragged his thumbnail over an exposed nipple. John shifted, his moan cracking in his dry throat. 

“Responsive, isn’t he?” Jim looked at Sherlock. 

“He always has been,” Sherlock agreed, “though I think your tea has something to do with it.”

“Oh, it was hardly difficult to create,” Jim tutted, “it makes this next bit easier and harder to recall, but it doesn’t invite reaction where none existed.” He flicked John’s nipple again, and the doctor’s hands spasmed on the sheets. “Turns out your precious husband isn’t as sweet and innocent as he lets on,” Jim smiled down at John, who was certain he’d never seen a more salacious expression. 

“Careful,” Sherlock warned, “this is an agreement Jim. Don’t sour it.” He tugged John’s clothing off and tossed it aside.

“I’m only being honest,” Jim protested. 

John shivered at the cool air against his skin. His mind was drowning in confusion and alarm. This couldn’t possibly be real, he thought to himself. Yet Sherlock’s touch was as familiar as Jim’s was alien. 

_Please, let this be a dream,_ , his cloudy thoughts coalesced into a singular plea. 

Between one blink and the next his vision was filled with skeletal apparitions. All of them crowded close upon him, clawing at his skin. They wailed in a dozen screams to run, to flee, to go. John was petrified. One came close to his neck, and bit at the delicate flesh. John thought he felt tearing, and a warm gush of blood down his throat. 

He thrashed in the grip of the phantoms to find himself staring into Jim’s black eyes. John’s neck tingled from a fresh and slowly blooming bruise. His wrists were pinned to the bed, which seemed excessive since John could barely call upon the strength to move his body. 

The sensation of being penetrated tingled from his arse up to his fingertips. John gasped, and Jim’s eyes went heavy-lidded. 

“Sweet boy,” Jim murmured, bending low to retrace the wet path he’d made with his tongue, “you have no idea how ravishing you look like this.”

Sherlock’s fingers, for they must have been his, curled inside of John. He feebly arched his back, his limbs inexplicably lax and unresponsive. _Since this is a dream, I suppose I vastly prefer it to the other one,_ John hazily thought. 

He felt Jim’s stubble scrape along his cheek. When John gasped in overwrought pleasure, Jim’s grip at his wrists tightened. Jim growled, suddenly moving off of John to discard his own clothes. 

“Enough now, it’s my turn,” Jim shoved at Sherlock’s shoulder while he was pulling off his shirt. Sherlock scowled at him, but moved away. John was distantly aware of Sherlock settling in beside him, but the center of his attention was on Jim’s actions. 

The man gripped the underside of John’s thighs, lifting them up and spreading his legs. Jim’s dark eyes greedily watched as he entered John’s body. John endured the sensation with detached horror.

He had seen that Jim’s cock-stand was shorter than Sherlock’s, but noticeably thicker. The man above him indulged in a sultry moan as he continued to press inside. The muscles of his thighs spasmed with the effort to move.  
The foreign feeling of a cock other than his husband’s compelled him to gasp. A weak twitch of his arms was the only evidence of his clamoring demand to claw Jim to shreds.

Sherlock’s hand reached up to turn John’s face towards his own, “You really are quite striking. Prone, helpless, unable to resist the sensations inflicted upon you.” His eyes took on a considering light that made a keen stab of betrayal flare in John’s chest, “It tempts the possibility of a repeated performance.”

“I am for the ayes if that’s the case,” Jim contributed, still focused on the disappearance and reemergence of his organ in John’s slicked hole.

“I should’ve known that copulation wouldn’t make you _less_ garrulous,” Sherlock lamented. Jim thrusted particularly forcefully, and John’s moan sufficiently distracted them from their repartee. Jim repeated the motion, avidly watching John’s face rather than the place they were joined.

Sherlock smoothed his hand over John’s sweaty brow. He pushed on John’s forehead, tilting his head back and exposing his throat. Sherlock nipped and licked along the skin opposite of Jim’s mark. 

Jim rolled his hips, and John felt his mind slip away. He clenched at the sheets, a paltry mimicry of his desperate need to stay cognizant in this dream, appalling though it was. Yet each pulse of pleasure had an increasingly soporific effect. 

The edges of the current hallucination blended with the visions of phantasms. Jim’s face became skeletal and his open lips of pleasure became a gaping maw. John whined in fear, and Jim’s bony fingers dug into his soft flesh.

John’s head was turned towards Sherlock again, and he gazed into luminescent eyes. Sherlock’s fingers slipped inside of John’s mouth. He teased the edges of John’s soft palate until he was gagging from the length. Icy eyes glowed with heat at the sound. He continued to aggravate John’s throat with his fingers.

“You can join in you know,” Jim lewdly suggested, “as a gesture of good faith. I daresay he’s wishing for your participation.”

John felt those fingers twitch across his tongue. Jim, preoccupied as he was, still caught the movement. “Oh, are we feeling hesitant all of a sudden? That much worse when it’s your _own_ hand committing the perversions is it? Come on Sherlock,” he pressed himself so deeply inside of John that the edges of his hipbones rested flush against his backside, “he’s practically keening for it. Are you really going to deny your precious John the thorough debasement he so clearly craves?”

“After all,” Moriarty pressed, his eyes gleaming with a dark temptation that even Lucifer would have envied, “it’s not as though he’ll be able to recall any of it.”

With that reminder, Sherlock pulled his fingers away. He moved to kneel on his knees as he shoved his nightclothes aside. He exposed himself fast enough that his member lightly slapped John’s face. A trail of precome glistened on his cheek like a wayward tear. 

Jim protested, “Oh you spoilsport, you’re going to block his face from me!”

“You can imagine it,” Sherlock snapped. His long fingers cupped John’s jaw, gently prying his mouth open even though the tendons were as lax as everywhere else. He slowly slid his length inside John’s mouth, squeezing his jaw to avoid any accidental brush of teeth. He leaned over to grip the headboard, which allowed for better leverage.

John felt his air constrict, yet he was unable to pull away. Each slide of Sherlock’s length abused his raw throat until he spluttered.

“Oh, do that again,” Moriarty purred as he rolled himself deeper into John’s body, “he fluttered around me when he couldn’t breathe.”

“Do be quiet Jim, for once in your life,” Sherlock tried to demand. It came out far breathier as his cock slid down John’s throat. 

John choked again as the firm length obstructed his air. Instead of easing away, Sherlock kept his hips where they were, and tightened his grip on John’s jaw to prevent reflexive biting. 

Jim moaned loud enough for John to hear him around the roaring in his head. He could feel Jim’s cock press against his pleasurable spot in short thrusts. Sherlock’s heavy length pulsed against his tongue. Saliva leaked out of his mouth in his struggling effort to breathe. His husband’s grip kept him from turning his head and his unnatural weakness prevented him from pushing those pale hips away. 

When John thought he would slip from this dream into the next, or possibly into blessed blackness, Sherlock pulled away. John heaved for breath as he heard Jim exclaim, “Christ above that feels incredible. Do that again before I’m finished.” 

John felt the sharp sting of nails dig into his thighs as he was pulled further into Jim’s thrusts. His cry was reedy due to his raw and abused throat. Blearily, John looked up at Sherlock, who had become a foreign creature of greed and lust. 

“Only if you do _that_ again,” said the stranger above him. 

Jim chuckled and praised, “Now you’re getting it,” as he repeated his brutal rhythm. John opened his mouth to release an overwhelmed cry of pain, pleasure, and betrayal, before Sherlock’s flesh slid back inside. 

Even while his body was so thoroughly abused, and his mind whirled in confusion and terror, his cock remained turgid along his belly. His brain slid over earlier words of a suspicious tea, but he couldn’t deny that the sweet slide in his insides and the salty taste of Sherlock’s member in his mouth did much to arouse him beyond compare. While this all seemed so real, and more frightening because of that, his flesh was not susceptible to such uncertainties. It was quite content to enjoy its carnality when it could, even within a feverish nightmare. 

As he felt the head of Sherlock’s dick slip past his throat, John decided to let the dream carry him where it may. It seemed a pointless venture to fight it. Only wakefulness would rescue him from these imaginings, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to rouse his body. It was the simplest measure to allow the lassitude to lead him where it may. All he had to do was stop struggling.

After that, his awareness rose and fell in that same disjointed continuity of all dreams. His body never seemed to move, but time had surely passed. He would notice Sherlock’s hand against his cheek, tilting John’s face up to stare directly into his unfocused eyes. He caught the clipped ending of an argument that had occurred in some unknown span of time. 

One of the worst, and yet most arousing moments, was when he was present enough to realize that both men were nearing their climax. He felt Jim’s rhythm dissolve into a more erratic tempo. Sherlock was gasping and moaning deeply above him, arching himself to impale John’s throat ever deeper. As John reflexively gagged around him, the stimulation was enough to cause his husband to spend himself down his throat.

As Sherlock’s prick left his lips, Moriarty released one hand from its death grip on John’s thighs to wrap around his stiff cock. Despite the heaviness to his frame, and his repeated loss of awareness, one part of him had clearly remained alert this entire time. John wasn’t sure if he could attribute it to a devilish concoction or his own weak flesh, but it hardly mattered. With a few strokes and Jim shuddering to climax in his body, he quickly crested until everything was bathed in a blinding white of pleasure. 

After that, there was only distant and murmured voices. A brief feeling of coolness over his abused skin. Then nothing. 

He drifted, for a long while, in silence and darkness.

~~~

John blinked the crud away from his eyes. The sun had warmed his face into wakefulness. The curtains were flung wide open to display the white winter sun. Even having slept well past his normal hour, John felt exhausted. 

He stretched out, trying to waken his muscles. He cringed when he felt the twinge of limbs not having been moved from awkward angles for a long period. Blearily, he tried to recall the events of last night that would have left him so weary.

He remembered the joy he’d felt for Sherlock and Jim in reaching a compromise over their petty feud, and the agreement to join them for a card game. After that it became a disconnected sense of heat, confusion, and unease.

John remembered then. He’d gone to bed with a fever. No wonder his body was sore, having fought off some sudden infection. 

He flopped over onto his back. As he licked his lips, he was struck by how dry his throat and mouth felt. It was a good job Sherlock was not here to kiss him awake, as his mouth tasted foul. Since no one was around to hear it, John groaned as he sat up to reach for the pitcher and glass on his nightstand. 

After he’d soothed his thirst, he tentatively rose out of bed. Every part of him ached, and he cursed his illness more as a man who enjoyed his health than as a budding physician. John picked up a small mirror to inspect his morning stubble and debate the wisdom in handling a straight razor when he felt so weary. Something in his reflection caught his eye.

There, peeking above his collar, was a deeply colored bruise. John sighed and mentally berated his husband. He couldn’t quite remember when Sherlock had made that mark, but John was going to have to talk to him about self-restraint, or purchasing more high collared shirts. There was only so much about his predilections that he was willing to share with Moriarty.

As he pulled at his collar to inspect the spread of the bruise, John gasped. He knew what a tender sucking bruise looked like, but this was far too vivid for such an act. As he peered closer, he could clearly make out the indentations of teeth on his skin. 

An unbidden chill rolled down his spine, but he paid it no heed. Then his eye caught on something else, and his brow furrowed. What he’d originally assumed to be the natural shadows of his face was clearly the beginnings of more violet patches. Too faint to be bites, and too small for a mouth besides. John was struggling to find a suitable comparison.

Until he brought up his own hand to cup his jaw, and placed his fingers in a general vicinity of the markings. Even if his fingers were too short to completely cover them. 

The chill wound its way through his stomach. 

John berated himself for being frightened of nothing. John knew the effects of fever on a man, and the previous night’s events were hazy due to said infection. Lord only knew what he had done to himself in a fit of wildness. 

Bruises that could have been caused by anything did not warrant alarm. 

The bite marks could have been from an earlier coupling with Sherlock. John so rarely gave into vanity that this could be the first instance of him noticing the bites. There was certainly nothing amiss there. John resolutely stamped down his unfounded disquiet. 

Just then, the door to his room opened. Sherlock had pushed away the door with his back in order to accommodate the tray he was carrying. He was clearly surprised to see John out of bed when he said, “Ah, you’re awake! I would have thought you’d be recuperating for far longer.”

With Sherlock here, in his room, personally carrying breakfast to his bedridden husband rather than letting one of the servants handle it, all of his anxieties seemed foolish in the extreme. John grinned at him with unabashed affection, “I hope I didn’t disturb your sleep too much. I know I can be fitful at the best of times.”

“Nonsense, you slept soundly. Which is why I fully expected you to still be asleep. You should get back into the bed nonetheless; you may not be fully recovered.”

“I feel fine Sherlock,” John rolled his eyes even while he did as suggested, “did I not say it was a simple dizzy spell? I feel refreshed for the world.”

“The favor you give to your hips and back suggests otherwise. You also still appear flushed.” He placed the back of his hand over John’s forehead to guess at his temperature. “Mm. I suppose not feverish anymore. Still, best to get your rest for precautions’ sake.”

“My goodness, you are worse than an easily distraught mother,” John teased as he reached for the vessel to pour his coffee. Sherlock grabbed it before he did, as well as his cup and saucer.

“I’ll prepare it for you, you enjoy your meal.” He set the items down on his nightstand. John huffed for a moment, prepared to go into a long winded speech about he was an able bodied man, if it pleased Sherlock so very much, and could pour his own coffee. But it would be the pinnacle of rudeness to lash at his partner when he was clearly trying to be helpful. 

He spread marmalade across his toast instead, and took hearty bites of the bacon. Sherlock set his cup back on his tray, and John smiled up at him in gratitude. He sipped at it, and it was perfectly sugared and whitened to his liking. Only, there were strange notes of flower underneath the bitter hints of the coffee beans.

He chose to keep this to himself, as he wished to avoid offending Sherlock. The man was exceptional in many regards, but when it came to brewing coffee, there was much to be desired. This was certainly his most successful attempt. John wouldn’t even have to fight instinctually flinching at the taste this time.

Sherlock left shortly after that, once John had sternly told him to leave the room as he didn’t require to be looked after. He finished his breakfast, indulged in a bout of slothfulness by reading his book in bed, and then moved to clear away his tray.

Only he felt far weaker than he had earlier that morning, and so he dropped everything, which caused porcelain to crack against the carpet. Fast footsteps followed the great clatter of clashing silver and pottery, and then Sherlock was by his side. 

“I told you not to overexert yourself,” Sherlock reprimanded, worry tightening the corners of his eyes. He helped John into bed. 

John murmured assurances, but even to him they sounded paltry. He knew that he must have fallen into a fitful slumber, because when he awoke, he was dreaming again.

It was one that clung to the inside of his mind like snail slime, blurring everything into an indistinct haze. He knew he was dreaming, because Jim was crawling onto the bed, looking at him as if he were a delicacy waiting to be consumed.

John tried to raise his hand to push him away, but the limb flopped uselessly on the bed. A sound of frustration and fear escaped him, but he couldn’t fault himself for the crack in his resolve. Surely this situation would reduce any person into a bleating lamb. 

Darkness slipped over his vision. At first John thought he was sinking into a deeper sleep, but Moriarty’s voice called out as clearly as ever, “Why make use of a blindfold?”

“We’ve already upset this delicate balance by allowing two incidents to occur on top of each other,” Sherlock impatiently explained as he pulled the knot off to the side of John’s head, to be sure he could rest his head comfortably against the pillows. “Concealing our faces will make us even more indistinct and ethereal when he regains his lucidity.”

“Or you’re worried he’ll start to dream about me,” Jim teased.

John didn’t need his sight to imagine the scowl on Sherlock’s face, “Remember how I mentioned that you spoil things when you speak? You’ve already pushed for a consecutive session and gave him a much stronger tonic than last time. If this has lasting effects, the deal is off Jim.”

“Such a short temper you have dear Sherlock,” Jim crooned, but his words held a hint of his own anger, “I do so wonder what you’d do to ensure I kept my hands to myself if you did rescind our agreement. I’d also inquire about your evidence to the conviction that you’d even succeed.”

Two very dangerous men regarded each other silently. By some unspoken and unknown conversation that took place entirely within their respective imaginations, they dropped the matter, and turned their attentions to something far more engaging.

“I’m curious as to why you’d request another dalliance so soon,” Sherlock confessed, “you’re aware that we’ll have to lengthen the time in between the next one to assuage suspicion.”

“Oh I may not be a great advocator of delayed gratification,” Jim allowed. John heard his clothes hit the floor as he spoke. His body slid along the sheets as he tried to shift away, but Sherlock’s long fingers pinned his wrists down, thwarting any futile movements.

“But I think you understand me perfectly when I confess that our little Johnny is quite addicting. I just needed another taste, before the long wait,” John felt the dip of the bed as Jim climbed back on. 

A strange whistling sound left John’s throat, and he distantly realized that he was trying to scream, but lacked the energy for such a task. 

“Flip him over for me would you?” Jim asked as he unstopped something, “He has such a lovely and smooth back. I would love to have it pressed against me.”

John was obligingly turned onto his front. He couldn’t tell if the shivering he felt in his limbs was from the unknown concoction, the chill in the air, or his own impotent combination of rage and terror.

Slick fingers pressed against his entrance, and he bit down on his tongue to delay his cry. Strange fingers slowly opened him up. The sensation of the slickness, being on his belly, and his thrice damned response to danger had John slowly shifting his hips against the sheets.

“Ah, there he is, joining us in the fun,” Jim cooed. He spread his fingers inside of John’s body and watched as the muscles in his back twitched. “Don’t you want to participate Sherlock? You enjoyed yourself last night.”

A memory as insubstantial as smoke floated across John’s mind. One of glowing inhuman eyes and the inability to breathe. It dissipated as Sherlock said, “…No, I’m fine as I am.”

Jim’s high giggle pierced through the dark sensuality of the room. “You mean you want to watch,” he observed. “You don’t have to play coy with me Sherlock. I think as you do. You’ve always enjoyed your ‘unions’, undoubtedly this is true, but you’re never able to see him properly are you? You have to contend with his face lost in rapture, or the thrum of his body around your prick. You don’t ever really have the occasion to see what sort of expressions, or movements, he can make when he’s caught up in someone else’s embrace.”

Sherlock’s continued silence was more of an affirmation than any verbal cue. “Luckily for you,” Jim continued, “I’m here to simultaneously grant your desire and show my gratitude.”

John felt the weight of Jim along his back before he was pulled up to kneel in front of his husband. Jim’s arm wrapped around his front, keeping him steady and pinned while his head lolled against the wretch’s shoulder. 

“See? Exposed for your viewing pleasure. For tonight, I get to take our little Johnny apart while you,” he slid his fingers out and the tormented man gasped, “get to watch it all happen.”

The bed shifted and dipped from Sherlock’s weight as he moved closer to John. Even without his sight, he knew that Sherlock was avidly watching him. John wasn’t sure if it would be worse for Sherlock’s expression to be that of objective curiosity or of unadulterated lust. If he could stand to consider it, John would know it was a combination of the two.

Jim’s free hand held the base of his own cock to guide himself inside of John’s loosened entrance. John’s moans choked in his throat as he tried to reconcile pleasure with disgust. 

When the tip of him had slipped inside, Jim moved to hold John’s hip, and slowly pulled him back onto his cock. John twisted, but the man’s slimness belied a wiry strength that went beyond John’s incapacitated state. 

A plea wheezed from John’s mouth, “St--stop. Pl--ease.” 

Jim nuzzled the side of his face. He rolled his hips in small circles while he soothed, “Hush now, no need for that. This is all just a bad dream my pet. Isn’t that right, Sherlock?” The man enunciated his consonants with long and deliberate drags in and out of John’s hole.

John felt Sherlock’s fingers brush the jutting shape of his collarbone as he said, “Just relax John. Let it overtake you, and wash over your consciousness as easily as water through a stream.”

Jim jostled him as he thrust up again, turning John’s denials and protests into gasps of pleasure. He felt Sherlock’s eyes rove over inch of him, just as tangible as the prick filling his insides. There was so little for him to focus on, that it inevitably fell to the sorry state of his own confused arousal. 

His own dick was thickening despite himself. As he was bounced, it slapped against his stomach or the top of his thighs. He felt Jim’s hand move from the crest of his hip to his hardened flesh, and didn’t protest when those clever fingers curled around him. 

“See how sweet it can be when you give in Johnny?” Jim panted in his ear. John could only groan in response. 

He felt his climax approach him with dizzying speed, but when he was just about to crest, his mind slipped from him. What was once heated flesh became a burning and indistinguishable mass. The fingers turned to unyielding bands that circled and wove over his cock. 

Too close to stop, John spent himself over the blackness that held him in an embrace. A being of shadow moved close and sealed over his mouth with lips of black smoke. John tried to thrash out of the grip of the formless nothings, but their insubstantiality was an illusion to their true strength. 

Ink curled inside of his mouth and wove inside of his body. The being behind him shuddered as it pulled him close, wrapped around him to prevent any struggles. He felt the hot sticky tar of it cling to his insides, to taint him from the inside out. He felt claimed, owned; as if the nightmarish beings sought to tarnish every inch of him until nothing remained. John tried to breathe, or to scream, but it merely surged deeper into the unknown folds of his body. 

The darkness wrapped around him like a snake around prey. In tighter and tighter bands, it squeezed his arms and neck while it clutched at his organs like a child crushing an overripe peach. 

John felt himself become encased and shrunken, as if the touch of the nothingness were the wrappings of his own corpse. He was being eclipsed, lost amongst all of the black. He was immobilized in the crushing pressure of the void. He felt it circle around his neck, and then _squeeze_.

~~~

He woke up thrashing. The sheets were wrapped tight around his clammy skin. For a few panicked moments John thought he was still being suffocated by—by the--. 

His mind glided over his dream, unable to recall the details. After he realized whatever he’d seen had been nothing more than a figment, he collapsed back onto the bed. He tossed the soaked sheets away from his body, disgusted at his own mind for reducing him back to a childish fear of his own bedding. 

His heart still pounded wildly in his chest. John stared at the ceiling to get himself under control once more. He remembered speaking to Sherlock about how his health had been faring towards the better, while Sherlock had promoted caution. John bitterly wondered when his husband would stop being right about everything.

He felt ashamed of himself almost immediately. It was hardly Sherlock’s fault that he was in such a poor state. John glanced around the room, and surmised that the time must have been late in the evening, perhaps even the dead of night. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, which was a shame. He felt he could use some company to take his mind off of his ailment.

John settled back into the blankets, too weary to try and look for his husband or his friend. Left to his own thoughts, John was forced to ruminate over the increasing number of nightmares he’d been experiencing. 

It could certainly be accounted to stress, what with the death of his sister, the whirlwind pace of the wedding, and being thrown into an unfamiliar environment with no connections outside of those bound by God and the law. 

Yet that assumption did not sit well with John. 

These last few unremembered nightmares could be ascribed to a combination of poor health and miserable luck, but the ones before them, the ones that still drew a chill down John’s spine with their unequivocal clarity, spoke of a deeper meaning than a troubled mind. What that meaning was still frustratingly evaded him. 

After all, it would make sense for Harriet to have haunted his dreams if he still resided in their old house. Surely every hallway, room, and picture frame would have carried the scent of her perfume, the echo of her laugh, or the flicker of her shadow. But out here, so far removed from everything familiar, she should have only been a passing and aching memory. 

That his sister would manifest as such a horrific entity unsettled him as well. For more than the obvious reasons. While she certainly hadn’t passed peacefully from old age, falling into a drunken stupor and unknowingly drowning in her own sick wasn’t the most violent of ends. 

Grief and shame prickled the back of John’s eyes. What sort of callous man was he that he could try to rate his sister’s untimely departure, as if he were comparing strategies for the best way to engage in rugby? He swallowed his chagrin and continued his train of thought.

Did his sister’s wailing spirit hint at a death that was more sickening than the one she met with? Was the reason she haunted these halls because she was following where her brother was treading, hoping to give him some important message? 

John was interrupted from his suppositions by Sherlock walking through his door. He carried a lit candle, which casted his features into an even sharper distinction. He smiled when he saw John propped up against the pillows. Normally the sight would have filled him with affection, but instead John felt a strange apprehension. He forced it away, and blamed his unnatural fears on his overtaxed mind and body.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked as he went to his husband’s side, “Your episode caused quite the stir within the household today. You couldn’t be roused for anything. Jim even tried to ride into town to fetch the physician. Thankfully the butler persuaded him to have the carriage prepared instead. Moriarty is awful on horseback.”

As Sherlock had held tightly onto John’s hand for most of the story, John didn’t doubt that Jim wasn’t the only one who had been greatly agitated by his illness. John brought the pale hand up to his lips and placed a small kiss over the knuckles. 

“I feel worn,” John confessed, “and exhausted, which makes no sense as I’ve been senseless for most of the day.”

Sherlock smiled, although it was a feeble and hesitant thing. John felt himself soften even further at the worry that pulled at the edges of Sherlock’s silver eyes. “I must have given you a fright,” John observed, “my deepest apologies. You surely know that causing you pain of any kind is abhorrent to me.”

The stiff line of Sherlock’s shoulders eased as he nodded. “Of course I do. Just as you are aware that the sentiment is quite mutual.” It was his turn to pull John’s hand close and place reverent kisses upon it as a worshipper does to his idol made flesh. “I imagine that your continued exhaustion and soreness has to do with the unfortunate fact that your sleep was far from peaceful. You were thrashing about quite often.” 

John’s heart raced as he dared to hope that he could gather some clue to his own mind’s machinations. Perhaps he’d even dreamt of Harry again, but he just couldn’t recall it. 

“Did I say anything? In my sleep?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No. Only nonsensical mumblings as you tried to twist off of the bed. And a great deal of shouting.”

John tried to conceal his disappointment, but clearly failed at the curious look Sherlock gave him. “Why do you ask? Were you hoping to uncover some secret unbeknownst to your own mind?” He gently teased.

“Something similar,” John allowed. Sherlock said nothing, merely waited in patience for John to either elaborate or shift the topic to something else. John was too tired to try and conceal this from his husband, who had been nothing but attentive at his bedside while he lay ill. 

“Ever since Harry died I’ve been experiencing…visions.”

“Visions,” Sherlock repeated blandly. The distanced tone embarrassed John almost more than outright derision. At least then his troubles would be worth the consideration for scorn. 

Still, he continued on, unable to stop now that the opportunity to speak about his troubles had been opened to him, “They’re far too vivid to be nightmares, but I am too aware of myself to call them delusions either. I see Harry, over and over again. She’s a restless spirit come to lament her state in life, or lack thereof. Yet despite knowing that it is my sister with all of my heart, she is far from the woman I knew. She is wailing, bitter, cruel, and... grotesque.” 

“I also see,” John sighed in frustration, “well, I don’t precisely see anything. They’re more like glimpses or a strong feeling. Skeletal creatures, swirling masses of blackness, and…heat.” John fidgeted, hoping he wasn’t blushing. Having described such gruesome images, he felt that alluding to the strange bouts of arousal indicated a depravity far uglier than anything John had seen. 

“I know it sounds fantastical to the extreme, and I don’t expect you to believe me, but this is what has been troubling me.” He looked at Sherlock’s face, expecting mockery or amusement, but his husband was looking at him with a sincere gentleness. There was also a careful stillness to Sherlock’s features that reminded John of a spooked animal, but he prayed above all else that his husband did not fear him for the mirages he couldn’t halt.

“If I could trade you my eyes, so that you would not be plagued by such hauntings, I would do so in an instant, my John.” 

John smiled at him, and leaned in to kiss him. When he pulled away, he realized that what Sherlock had artfully _not_ said revealed a great deal. “You don’t believe me,” John observed with careful calm.

Sherlock twitched. A brief look of regret passed over his face, but he answered honestly, “I believe that you see these apparitions. In regards to them having any real substance outside of the fanciful, no, I do not.”

“Fanciful?” John repeated with disbelief, “You think I see these horrific things out of what, boredom? An overactive imagination?” 

His husband winced sympathetically, “Forgive me, I did not mean to imply that you conjured them on purpose, or that they are meant as an idle distraction. I only meant to suggest that they are nothing more than the manifestations of your stresses and worries John. You have been through much turmoil these past few days, more than most souls see in a life time. It is obvious that this is nothing more than ghastly mirages.”

John wanted to be irritated. He pettily wanted to cling to anger against his husband and his perfectly sound logic. If for no other reason than anger felt far more substantial than anything he’d experienced these last few weeks. But John was aware of how childish he would be if he clung to such flimsy justifications. 

He sighed deeply, and collapsed back onto the pillows, “You are, as always, right. I don’t imagine that I ever entertained the thought of them being more than nightmares. I simply…wanted a reason for their existence besides my own weakness.”

Sherlock scoffed, “You are many things my husband. Possessing a macabre imagination may be one of the newest attributes I’ve unveiled about yourself, but you are far from weak.”

“Being haunted by my own mind hardly seems a characteristic prevalent amongst stalwart fellows.” 

“Perhaps not in the dimwitted ones, no. But a man who cares deeply enough about his sibling’s death, who is so companionable that he finds isolation up in his dreary manor unbearable, and confronts villains with nary a thought of his own safety until well after the fact, I imagine he’d have quite a few ghosts lurking about in his thoughts.”

John swallowed around the prickling in his throat. “That is quite the admirable hero you’ve painted; however, I must point out one fault in the comparison.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“With you here, it is hardly a dreary home.”

Sherlock fell with him onto the bed. He kissed John’s face and lips as if he were a precious and priceless treasure. 

They fell asleep together like that, curled up and more content than either had dared to hope for. 

~~~

Slowly, John regained his health over the upcoming days. Quite frankly, after he’d woken up for the third time, his exhaustion had fled him completely. But since his over eagerness to leave his bed had almost ended in a disaster, he heeded his husband’s words and stayed stagnant the rest of the time. 

It was made a bit more bearable by Jim coming by to visit him for long lengths of time. “Had to make sure our residential golden boy was actually mending himself this time,” Moriarty teased, “Sherlock nearly brought the house down when you’d collapsed. I had to make sure I wasn’t about to be in the epicenter of one of his breakdowns again.”

“I heard he wasn’t the only one,” John rebutted, “that you nearly underwent your own gallant adventure to try and recover the doctor. A lone horse in this snow when you can barely ride yourself? I’m sure you were the pinnacle of composed.”

“Ugh, that Sherlock talks too much,” Moriarty complained. “You caught me fair and square though. I was quite shaken when I’d heard you’d fainted. We’ve only just become friends after all. It would hardly be fair of the world to deprive us of our new founded intimacy.” 

A strange and unbidden chill flashed down John’s spine at those words. Images of grinning teeth and tight grips flickered like candle shadows at the edges of his mind. John smiled, and hoped it wasn’t strained. 

He pushed down the strange non-memories and said, “Indeed. I don’t suppose that, as new companions, you could sneak me out of this room for a short while?”

Moriarty grinned, a much warmer thing than the one that was featured in his dark imaginings, and said, “It would be my pleasure to escort you Mr. Watson-Holmes. Let’s go before His Irksomeness returns.”

It was a short walk around the mansion, well away from the areas Sherlock frequented, but John relished the chance to stretch his legs. Jim’s easy company did much to banish the remnants of half-heard laughter and garbled hissed words. When they returned, Sherlock was waiting for them at John’s bedside, with a fully formed scowl.

“You shouldn’t have been walking around, you’re only just recovering,” he reprimanded. 

“I had Moriarty with me the whole time,” John protested, “if anything were to have gone awry I was in capable hands.”

“Indeed, perfectly satisfactory hands,” Moriarty agreed, smiling genially at Sherlock. The man rolled his eyes and huffed. He seemed ready to disparage Moriarty’s abilities, but John interrupted him.

“I thought we were over this petty behavior Sherlock. Unless I need reevaluate what it means when you two promise your word over a matter supposedly resolved?”

That chastised Sherlock well enough, for he nodded and said, “You’re right John. I apologize. I should have realized that I could entrust Moriarty with your well-being.” 

John was satisfied with the apology, and walked over towards their bed without support. “Good. See to it that you two retain your good rapport if you know what’s best for you.”

When he turned around to get into bed, he froze. This time, the grin Moriarty bore was an exact replica from the one of his dreams, “Your wish is our command, Johnny-boy.”

That night, John slept fitfully, but without any logical reason. All he had was snippets of fingers dragging over flesh and protests being forcibly muffled. There was never any face, or identifying voice. Just teeth and glowing icy eyes. 

His recovery to strength brought few nightmares apart from the occasional fitfulness. John began to wonder if his confrontation of his own stress had banished the visions entirely. As he thought about it, it even explained his earliest sightings of his deceased father, before maintaining the household with Harry became his priority. He’d thought they were real. Harry had even been accommodating and supportive, often inquiring about their frequency and severity. 

Perhaps it was because she was as fanciful as he was, or she had been hiding her disbelief rather masterfully. Either way, John resolved to put the matter behind him. If he had episodes of grief or loneliness, he would henceforth seek to assuage it with his husband or friend. He did not have to bear such trials alone anymore. 

He went back to occupying his time in the greenhouse and his studies. He felt he was making steady strides on his goal towards learning the complexities of human health. He was confident enough in his abilities that he brought up the possibility of attending medical school to his husband.

It was a great surprise when he refused the idea.

“Your needs for an education can be met here. We have the finest library, and I can hire you an esteemed professor as a private tutor. There’s no need for you to attend a college.”

“Wasn’t the entire point of me pouring over those journals was to attend school? You said so yourself, if I recall correctly,” John said with some frustration, “I have no doubt about the qualifications of anyone you’d employ, but I need stimulation given by more than one individual, Sherlock. I cannot be a classroom unto myself. It would be a poor discourse indeed if it resembled that of an echo chamber.”

“You have no need to leave,” Sherlock firmly said, “and that should be the end of it.”

“For the love of God Sherlock, I can understand your disregard for others even if I don’t approve of it. Lord knows you were right to distrust my presence in the village, but I would be amongst peers! Fellow men and women with ambitions of medicinal advancement! I’d hardly be in want for conversation or company in such an environment, so why are you so-”

“You don’t need to leave!” Sherlock shouted. John stepped back in surprise before anger washed through him at the hostile tone from his own husband.

“Is that what this comes down to? A spiteful desire to keep me at your side, even when it hinders my future? Are you truly so selfish?”

Sherlock looked stricken. John had a moment to regret his words before Sherlock fired back with vitriolic fervor, “What could you possibly do with a medical degree? I’m sure you’d be of great use when the gardener is careless with his shears or the local rabble catches a chill. If you are so desperate to feel needed, then perhaps you could waste your time in a more productive fashion by studying to become an archivist, and organize all of the books you senselessly disarrange.”

It was John’s turn to be deeply cut by sharp words. Sherlock’s expression of shame indicated his comprehension in how far he’d overstepped. Before he could beseech forgiveness, John left the study.

For hours, John filtered his anger and dismay into tending the greenhouse. He pulled weeds, moved plants, and shoveled soil until his fine clothes were soaked with sweat and caked with dirt. Normally he would have changed into more suitable attire, but the words ‘desperate to feel needed’ and ‘waste your time’ chased away any avoidance of ruining fabric. When his hands were raw and his back had turned into one pulsing ache, he threw his shovel aside and slid down to the floor.

It was well past dusk outside of his glass haven, but the candle lanterns he’d set up offered enough illumination. With the smell of wet earth, snapped greenery, and flickering warm light, he began to hope that he was swaying back towards calm.

Then he remembered being accused of being as helpful as a live-in librarian, and his teeth ground together. The back of his head hit the thick glass wall with a hard thunk. He could feel the chill which clung to the panes, causing frost to form and turn everything outside of his warm nook into a hazy dream.

As he sighed deeply, John knew that he hadn’t forgiven Sherlock for his words. Sherlock’s desires to keep him close to the mansion were bafflingly petty, and his remarks had been overtly cruel. It was a bitter sensation to be angry at the one person who had become his constant in the chaos. 

His urge to punch the man had at least disappeared, which was a welcome relief. And it was enough for John to want to continue their conversation, hopefully the both of them calmer from their self-imposed separation. He was going to sway Sherlock to his side or by God he would apply without his approval.

Just as John moved to stand, he heard scratches.

At first, he relegated the sound to branches moving against the glass from the icy winds outside. But there were no trees that hung so close to the greenhouse, and the air outside appeared still.

“It’s all in your mind,” John told himself, his lone voice seeming loud in the anticipatory hush. “It’s only stress,” he reassured himself, “you’re mad at Sherlock, and that’s playing tricks on your perceptions.”

The sound occurred again, much louder than before. He realized it wasn’t a noise on the outside, but somewhere indoors and nearby. 

His heart thudded inside of his chest. The awareness of his solitude sunk in. He was without a weapon and far from help. He quickly smothered those useless thoughts. He’d been quite alone when he’d been accosted on the street. He hardly needed rescue from some stray and freezing animal seeking shelter.

Then he heard his name. At first, he thought the wind had picked up outside, but the hollow sound shaped vowels into something discernible.

Again, the soft whisper slid through his ears, as gentle and startling as a cold caress. He whirled around to face the noise, but nothing was there. 

His sweat soaked clothes itched as they clung to his suddenly clammy skin. 

The scratches grew more insistent, which led to John’s discovery of their origin. Something was dragging its nails on the inside of the locked section.

John crept steadily forward. The whispers had grown louder. He distantly realized that it wasn’t just one voice speaking to him, but several on top of each other, and they were all unfamiliar. In that instant, he almost wished for Harry’s wails over the indistinct strangers’ mutterings. 

“John,” they whispered, soft as the scratching, “squirm in the worms with us John.”

“Play in the filth,” one said. “Swallow the rocks,” said another.

They entreated him, crooned and sang until his head swirled with their nonsense rhymes and dire pleas. 

Over the sounds of his drumming heartbeat and the countless voices, was the sound of the scratching. The strength of the cuts implied that, surely, whatever was beyond the frail glass door would break itself out. But the frame didn’t buckle, and John saw nothing shifting in the unlit section.

Gone were the dreadful taunts to come play. Instead it became a chorus of begging to “Let us out, let us out, let us out!” Under the cacophonous din was John’s own thoughts, which wildly suggested that he should open the door. But that wasn’t possible, as Jim and Sherlock kept it locked as a matter of safety. It was just as impossible as unseen voices and relentless furrowing.

His hand reached for the knob as the voices screeched at him. 

Something gripped his shoulder, and John spun wildly around as he yelled in fright.

“Johnny!” Jim exclaimed as he backed away from the flailing man, “What on earth is wrong? I’ve been calling out to you, I thought you fell asleep.”

John panted as the rush of unspent adrenaline washed through him. He faced the door again, but it was as placid as a lone pond. The voices had disappeared as swiftly as ripples disturbing the surface. 

“I-I was just-”, John cleared his throat to try and sooth his cracking voice, “I thought I heard…something.”

Moriarty raised a dubious eyebrow, while his dark eyes remained concerned, “What did you hear? Good Lord Johnny, you look as though you’ve seen a phantom.”

John’s sudden burst of laughter possibly sounded more hysterical than he intended. “No, I…I just thought I heard an animal in the locked section. It sounded wounded and your sudden presence startled me. That’s--that’s all.”

Jim huffed in disbelief. “Well I haven’t heard anything and I’ve been traipsing through this place seeking you. There’s no way an animal could have burrowed in Johnny, there’s well-laid brick surrounding the foundation, specifically to deter pests.” 

John swallowed the urge to protest, to scream that he had heard something as surely as he’s hearing Jim’s voice now. But there wasn’t even so much as a scuffle coming from the other side of the door. He knew what he’d sound like if he pushed the matter.

“Are you sure you’ve been recovering Johnny?” The back of Jim’s hand stretched forward to press against John’s forehead, feeling for a fever. It took a surge of self-discipline to keep John from flinching. 

Jim’s skin felt as cool and dry as a lizard’s, but there was something about his touch that felt unsettlingly familiar. Before John could follow the thought, Moriarty pulled his hand away.

“You do feel a bit warm, and you’re certainly pale enough. Perhaps it was just another lapse in your health. You have missed two meals after all.”

John tensely nodded. His eyes strayed back to the traitorous door. In that moment he prayed for a hellish scream, a thundering bang, or even a soft scutter to validate him. Everything remained silent. 

“Yes,” John reluctantly agreed, “I suppose I’m not as well as I thought I was.”

“Well,” Jim immediately brightened, “good thing I came out to fetch you then. I saved some food for you with the intent to join you for a late supper. And I refuse to take no for an answer about it. After all, we have much to talk about.”

John stopped from shrugging his coat back on to give Jim an inquisitive look. 

“Oh, you hardly need to be a genius of my caliber to know when you and Sherlock are suffering from a lover’s spat. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of you all day, and the great tosser won’t stop pacing about and slamming books unnecessarily. It’s quite unbearable.”

John had it in him to smile tightly in humor, but that was it. It brought him no pleasure to know that Sherlock was in bad spirits because of something he felt so strongly about.

Moriarty perceived his disquieted look and took pity on him, “How about we go back inside and you can tell me all about it? I always relish a chance to hear Sherlock thrown in a disreputable light. Especially considering that you seem to insist on seeing nothing but the best in him.”

John snorted in amusement at that, “Are you sure you wish me to list irritations about my husband? I’m sure he’s done nothing but remark upon my faults to your sympathetic ear.”

“I’m sure he would have, if there was even a chance of it. It’s quite a different matter for you. While you ignore or glance over Sherlock’s faults, our dear man has nothing to say about your ill character, for you don’t possess one.”

John was quite taken aback by this compliment. He was about to remark on it but Jim waved away any gratitude. 

“None of that Johnny. As much as I understand that you would be sincere in whatever you were about to say, it’s quite unnecessary. Sherlock and I only deal in truths after all. Now let’s get back to the house before your food becomes unpalatable.”

John lamented his troubles over his late meal. By the time he was done they’d moved into the sitting room and were drinking tea in front of the roaring fire.

“So you can see why I’m upset with him,” John concluded. He watched the reflection of the fire in the garnet colored liquid. He drank, and imagined that he could swallow the flames to burn his troubles to cinders. “I just can’t understand why he’d be so obstinate on the subject. He was perfectly supportive of my dreams in becoming a student of medicine when we first met. Now, when I finally have the opportunity within reach, he won’t allow it. It’s incomprehensible.” 

“Not to me it isn’t,” Jim admitted. He held up a hand at John’s betrayed expression, “Forgive me John, I sympathize with your plight, I truly do. But the benefits of having a mind similar to Sherlock’s is that I can understand his motives when they seem perfectly mercurial to outsiders. It isn’t that Sherlock is against your pursuit of becoming a doctor, it’s the threat of you leaving that appalls him so.”

“He suggested as much when we fought,” John said, “and I’m still shocked at his selfishness.”

“Selfishness? Yes, I suppose it could be termed as such. I would call it a desperate plea for survival.”

John couldn’t help but scoff at that, “What could you possibly mean? Sherlock doesn’t need me here to survive.”

“Not in the literal definition, perhaps not. In the sense of day-to-day function however, you’ve shown to be quite necessary.”

It was all John could do to not throw his hands up in exasperation and smash his teacup in the process, “Oh yes, because helping you two resolve the occasional business matter, or puttering about the house tending to the garden and the books, has certainly sealed my position as the bedrock to his daily life.”

Jim laughed at his outburst. “I take your meaning, but trust me, you are essential to him. Forgive my saying so John, but I do know him a bit more than you do. Oh, you’re well on your way to knowing his inner self as adeptly as I have, but some things are still hidden from you.”

“Like what?” John demanded, well past wishing that Jim would hurry to the point.

“The fact that he’s petrified of the possibility that you will leave him, should you attend college, is my immediate inference.”

For a few moments, John was so stunned he was entirely without words. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“I mean exactly what I said John. He may be a brilliant man, but when it comes to matters of the heart, our Sherlock is quite dense. He may recognize that you see him as extraordinary, but to his vast and sharp imagination, he can conjure up a multitude of better suitors that would sweep you away from him.”

The thought was so patently absurd to John that it was a very great effort not to laugh aloud, “Suitors is a term used for a person who is not already quite taken and happily belonging to another individual. I am married, for God’s sake, I’m not a virile bachelor mingling with youths.”

“Your proficiency in underestimating your own charms never ceases to amaze me John. If someone truly got to know you and see you for the rare man you are, I’m sure they’d consider your status an obstacle rather than a deterrent.”

That was twice in one night that Jim had sought to compliment him, and that pulled all of the words from John. More so than the idea that people would be fighting over him like a modern Helen of Troy if he ever mingled amongst the public.

“That is what Sherlock is so frightened over. To him, there is a possibility, however slim, that someone who shares your same interests and is certainly not unintelligent, has come by well means through occupation or birth, and possesses your similar knack for caring about others, will persuade you away from his side. Regardless of your feelings about him now, even you must admit that your union was one made quite hastily. Who is to say that there couldn’t be a deeper connection forged over time and mutual companionship?”

John had nothing to say to that. He drank from the experimental tea again instead. 

Jim took his silence as evidence of, if not agreement, then at least consideration. “Well now, it’s been a long day for all of us. I think it’s best if we retire now, and approach the problem with fresher minds, as you often advise.”

John nodded. Rest did sound quite welcome just then. Not only from his own tempestuous thoughts, but also because of the strained effort of keeping his eyes open.

The return to his room and climbing into his bed was a hazy blur. He would have felt guilty had Sherlock been there, as John would want to be as present as possible when speaking with his husband about their unresolved fight. But he wasn’t there, and John could only speculate how long he’d be cooped up in the study before exhaustion beckoned him back to bed.

So he fell into sleep without remorse, his body oddly hot and tingling. 

He awoke, or perhaps rose to awareness, in a dream. Hands were roughly shedding him of his clothes. 

“Someone’s aggressive tonight,” Moriarty commented, “still feeling a bit angry at our potential absconder, Sherlock?”

“I’m not angry,” he denied, “I’m only--”

“Possessive? Jealous? Demanding? They’re qualities John is well aware of, just to clarify. Though he is certainly not knowledgeable of their depths.”

“I’m only _impatient_ ,” Sherlock snapped. “I haven’t seen him all day and we haven’t had a real opportunity together for some time, thanks to his ‘illness’.”

“How unfortunate for you,” Jim wryly said, “at lest you have the opportunity to take him in sunlight while he’s fully cognizant. Granted, he possesses a delectable appeal when he’s insensate.” 

John was rolled over onto his front. He felt Sherlock’s weight drape across his naked back. Sherlock still remained clothed, but the evidence of his eagerness pressed against the small of John’s back. 

“Yet you insisted on not participating in this exchange. Why?” John felt cold fingers slicked with Vaseline rub against him before they slipped inside. His tiny moan went unnoticed or ignored as the men continued their conversation.

“Well, you got to watch last time, I wanted to perceive the experience myself. Or perhaps I feel pity at your expense, getting into a disagreement with your beloved and all.” 

The sound above John was the driest example of derisive amusement he’d ever heard. “Or perhaps you’re hoping to observe my ‘abilities’ and find some fault in them, so you may conspire with John about it and bond at my expense.”

Jim’s scandalized gasp was heard over Sherlock’s disrobing, “The very idea Sherlock! I’m hurt that you’d accuse me of such underhanded tactics.”

“Enough, Moriarty.”

John didn’t hear any apologies, but he assumed by Jim’s silence or some gesture he acquiesced. Then his hips were being pulled backwards by long pale fingers. Unable to move his body, his rump was left exposed to the air while the rest of him was as lax as a doll. He couldn’t even rub his face into the sheets to scrub away his shame.

Those same fingers were back at his entrance, impassively prepping him with more slick as Sherlock asked, “You said he seemed fine? After you spoke with him?”

“Mm-hm,” Jim hummed distractedly as he moved across the bed. John felt his head being gently turned to the other side so he could unwillingly stare into Jim’s liquid brown eyes.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock called for his attention with annoyance in his tone. 

“Hm? Oh, right. Yes, yes, he seemed to feel much better about the whole thing afterwards. Although I would definitely elaborate in the morning about your feelings on the matter. Capitulate a bit, even. Give him a private tutor so he can learn medicine.”

“That’s what I offered in the first place,” Sherlock icily pointed out. He removed his fingers and slowly slid his cock inside.

John groaned and felt a blush creep from his face down to his neck when he realized Jim had been inches away, seeing and hearing everything while John was unable to muffle himself. It was the way Jim looked unabashedly _hungry_ that made revulsion flip through his stomach.

“Then offer it again,” Jim retorted, not tearing his gaze away once. “He’ll be much more receptive this time.”

“I hope so. We can’t keep him like this indefinitely just to suit our needs.” John wondered how on earth Sherlock was able to sound so steady while he was dragging his prick in and out of his body.

“Oh, but that is a lovely fantasy,” Jim purred. “Wouldn’t that be nice Johnny? Keeping you all pliant and relaxed while we had our way with you for the rest of your life?”

Sherlock’s grip on John’s hips tightened painfully. Apparently Jim wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the idea.

Jim’s fingers traced over the shape of John’s sweaty face. It was hard to discern if John twitched in pleasure, revulsion, or the leeching poison coursing through his veins. 

He finally heard Sherlock’s tenuous hold on control slip. The man groaned and thrust more vigorously than before. John wasn’t sure if the catalyst was simply a factor of stimulation over time, John’s involuntarily trembling body, or Jim molding his fingers around the shape of John’s face simply because he could. He was certain that he didn’t want to know the answer.

He felt two hands wrap around his length. The length and shape of the fingers were so disconcertingly different that they had to belong to both of the men that were taking him apart. They fought for strips of skin to caress and flesh to tug. One hand with artful fingers pulled gently at his sac, while others callused from writing rubbed over the peeking crown of his dick. 

Climax struck John like a runaway horse. He catapulted into pleasure with all of the grace of a blow to the stomach. With his release done, all that was left was for him to fall into darkness. 

As he tumbled into oblivion, he uneasily wondered why all of this felt so familiar.  
~~~

Vines. Hundreds of vines slithered across his skin like snakes. He twisted away from them, but they cinched tighter around his limbs to keep him still. He opened his mouth to scream for help, but it was strangled to a whimper when a cord wrapped tightly around his throat. 

Green coils circled his skin one rung at a time until he was as tightly secured as a mummy. As trapped as he was, they didn’t stop encompassing him. They branched out, with tiny sinew textured roots emerging from the soft green skin. 

As gently as a pin through cloth, they slid under the thin barrier of his flesh to nestle and slink through his veins. His membranes and fluids were now the home to a community of delicate vegetation. They soaked up his blood to pull it steadily into a circulatory system that it didn’t belong to. 

John watched as the green cells turned dusky with a distant horror. He was too paralyzed to do anything, and the ability to scream was quickly fleeing with each panicked pump of his heart.

Soon the plants grew fat with his essence. They seared with a stolen heat against his cooling skin. The evidence of their gluttony bulged unseemly in sparse sections, until the tops split open like a sliced stomach. Dozens of glistening ruby droplets popped free of their cylindrical prisons. 

They expanded and flopped onto the ground with each trickling draw from his overtaxed body. His tongue and eyes felt shrunken and wrinkled. John was sure now he had far more in common with the physical resemblance of an ancient Egyptian corpse than just its wrappings.

Each desperate breath he took rattled in his desiccated lungs. His lips were withered and pulled back against his teeth in a hellish grin. 

It was as the gruesome fruit was swelling to the size of grapes that John realized he’d been hearing voices amidst his own wheezes. His skin scraped against the ground, flaky as an insect’s wing, when he turned his head and saw the faces in every berry. 

They morphed like wet clay, no one looking exactly alike in the clusters spilling from the crimson vines. Their voices rose as one tinny chorus, “It is better than going back.”

A skeletal hand tipped his chin up, and his sister matched his horrific grin. Her exposed teeth clacked together as she said, “Better to join the worms than be trapped in Hell.”

Her mouth opened, black and yawning, and she descended for his throat to rip the last of his life away.  
~~~

This time, John barely jerked awake. As he began filtering in the sounds and sensations of a cold winter morning, he wondered if the lack of a violent awakening meant he was becoming used to these visions. He prayed deeply to God that this was not so.

An ivory arm draped over his chest to pull him close against the warm body behind him. When he felt Sherlock’s breath against his nape, a portion of the tension drained from his muscles. He remembered fruit bursting with his blood, and clenched his fists to ward away the memory. 

A kiss was placed over the knob of his spine. There was no pretending he was asleep anymore. 

“Good morning,” John murmured drowsily. His limbs felt heavy and sore again. He wondered if his time in the garden had exacerbated old aches.

Remembering his time in the greenhouse reminded him why exactly he’d spent such an arduous amount of time there. Horrific imaginings appeared secondary in dread, when compared to the upcoming confrontation.  
Sherlock sensed the sudden tenseness in John’s form and said, “Moriarty told me he spoke with you last night.”

John saw no reason to deny it, but also felt too weary in mind and heart to verbally respond. He nodded, and the brush of his skin against silk brought back the sound of flaking skin against earth. It was a great effort not to shiver.

“He also conversed with me, though I’m sure he was much politer in his speech when addressing you,” Sherlock wryly said. “Though I’ll admit, a lot of the remarks he made were accurate and logical. Even in regards to my character.”

John finally turned around at that, and cupped Sherlock’s angular cheek in his hand as he said, “There’s nothing wrong with your character.”

Sherlock smiled softly at him. “Disagreements about that aside, it was the ghastly argument from yesterday that he had some suggestions for.” 

Sherlock drew John’s hand away from his face to kiss the back of it. He cast his eyes down, unable to look at John directly as he confessed, “I was being beastly. I of course have no right to keep you from your pursuits. You are your own man after all. In fact, you are the embodiment of all that is good and honorable in such a specimen. I only feared of having that lost to me, and I attempted to covet you like water to a parched throat. I made a promise when I married you. I swore that whatever you wished would be yours if it was within my capacity to give. Jim reminded me of that last night, and I am immeasurably grateful to him for it. Whatever your decision on the matter, I shall support you whole-heartedly. No matter my selfish misgivings.”

John couldn’t help but kiss him. It was like a small wave against a sandy shore, unstoppable and gentle. He kissed him over and over until he felt like he was leaving imprints in the shape of his lips. 

When he pulled away he said, “How could I leave you, when your absence would be just as keen a pain to me as it would be for you.”

Sherlock deflated, relief creeping into every sinew. John didn’t doubt that Sherlock would have kept his word, but it was clear which answer he preferred.

“I’ll send for a tutor,” Sherlock promised, “only the most qualified and capable I assure you. I will do so as soon as I leave this bed and have pen and paper at hand.”

“Then it shall not be for a while,” John coyly said as he moved on top of him. He swung his leg over Sherlock’s hip, and cried out when he felt a sharp pull on his insides.

“John? What is it?”

“I-I don’t know,” John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. He deeply ached in an intimate place, which started to alarm him. How had he been injured _there_ of all places? He didn’t remember—

John’s thoughts hushed. He didn’t remember. There was the fight, the greenhouse, the enlightening conversation with Moriarty and then…nothing. He didn’t remember getting back into bed, or feeling Sherlock climb in. John never counted himself as a heavy sleeper, and the dark images of last night would have made him even more aware of any change upon his sleeping form.

“Are you quite alright?” Sherlock asked, “You spent a great deal of time in the greenhouse, did you strain your body?” His hands roved over John’s hips, checking for some injury.

The sensation of long hands grasping hungrily and without compassion rose up in John’s mind.

“Don’t!” John shouted as he shoved Sherlock’s hands away.

The moment he’d done it, he was mortified. Sherlock laid beneath him looking as wounded as if John had slid a knife between his ribs whilst they were joined together. 

“Sherlock, my God. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I--”

“Did you have a nightmare again?” Sherlock asked. A mask of calm had settled over his face and John wished he could chase it away into a grin, or a smolder, or anything besides that aloof expression. 

“…Yes,” John admitted, even though he knew it wasn’t the reason for his outburst. What he’d felt hadn’t been a lingering imagination. It had been like a half-recalled memory, revealed from the mind’s depths only when similar circumstances align perfectly.

“I am not offended,” Sherlock assured him, rubbing the delicate skin of John’s wrists with his thumb after a cautious approach. “I’ve said before that I would rather take on your suffering any day. And while you certainly are not diminished in appeal to my eyes, your nerves are clearly shot. Not to mention the aches you sustained from your gardening. We shall have to continue this activity later.”

John nodded mutely while he gingerly extricated himself from atop of his husband. His mind was still reeling from implications that couldn’t possibly be true.

Sherlock went off to the study to make good on his promise. John trudged down the staircase to satiate his stomach, even while his mind couldn’t be calmed. 

Jim was there, as he had often been there in more recent days, drinking coffee while reading the newspaper. The sight of the black liquid brought to mind a coffee that had tasted oddly floral. One that had shared a similar taste with a tea served over celebration and intense discussion. 

_Stop that line of thinking right there John Watson_ , he thought to himself as he spread preserves over freshly cut bread. _Your health has been taxed these last few days, to say nothing of the nightmares that now make you remember false memories. Do not let a fanciful imagination and paranoia lead you to erroneous and disgusting suppositions._

He turned around, plate and a cup of tea in hand, when he started at the intense stare on Jim’s face. “Something troubling you dear boy?” Jim asked as he snapped his papers back into form, “You seem awfully agitated this morning.”

“It’s nothing,” John deflected as he sat down at the table, “just a troubling dream last night.”

“Oh? Are you sure there weren’t any other things of note to discuss?” 

John felt like he truly had grown to know Moriarty more, simply for the fact that he could now discern that the natural and casual cadence to his tone was nothing less than a masterfully controlled façade.

He realized what Jim was trying to ask about without obviously prying and gave him a wan smile, “Sherlock and I reached a compromise this morning. He’s penning out the summons for a tutor as we speak.”

“Marvelous,” Jim’s face split into a grin, “I must confess that I had hoped for this outcome. And anticipated it as well. You two are too smitten with each other to leave his side for more than a few hours.”

John laughed at that. It was a soft and thin laugh, but a genuine one. Moriarty seemed to catch the strained tone for he asked, “Are you quite sure you’re all right John? After all, I would think a compromise would be cause for celebration and not the distressed air you carry about yourself.”

John turned his tea cup around in his hands. He knew what he was thinking was ridiculous at best, and a grave insult at worst. Yet the suspicion gnawed at his mind. Only by addressing it, at least in a circumspect manner, could he put these poisonous thoughts to rest.

“I suppose I haven’t really been myself lately. I thought my health on the mend, but the illness apparently lingers in more insidious ways.” Before Jim could ask what John meant by that, he continued, “Strange though. I’d been in peak physical condition just a little while ago. Now I can barely seem to go a few days without swaying under some new sickness.”

John pretended to think on the cause and said, “You know, I think it began with your little hobby experiment involving the tea. Do you think that might be the source for these ailments?”

John looked up from his cup. For the span of less than a moment, he could’ve sworn that he saw some emotion on Jim’s face that could not be named. He only knew it to be twisted and ugly. Then it was gone, and John told his hammering heart it was a shadow of the morning light.

“Mm, do you think so?” Jim asked in a way that had already dismissed the suggestion. “I can personally assure you that the mixture is considerate of all possible ailments.”

“Perhaps it is something specific that doesn’t agree with me,” John suggested, “what does the tincture consist of? I know you’ve mentioned that you’ve been growing your own strain of leaves, perhaps the original plant might be something that would cause an adverse reaction?”

Jim looked at him as if John had implied the leaves had been soaked in cyanide. Which he wasn’t. He _wasn’t_. He was only trying to ascertain the cause of his nightmares and dizzy spells. And why his husband’s touch and Jim’s smile would be in one instance comforting but in a sudden moment turn repulsive.

“It’s only an herbal remedy John,” Jim insisted laughingly. There was something about the noise that grated along John’s nerves. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken up an interest in plant breeding now, I thought you were already preoccupied with your health studies?”

John’s hands stopped fiddling with his cup. Like a swift current that briefly revealed the fish-picked bones of a skeleton, John realized he was being deliberately redirected. He still didn’t think…it wasn’t _conceivable_ for him to have been hampered by his own family. But something was being hidden from him. Something that Jim, and possibly even Sherlock, had no intention of ever telling him. 

So John needed to find out for himself.

He dropped the subject entirely. He told Moriarty all about his expectations of who Sherlock would be hiring, along with what he was excited to learn about. Afterwards, Moriarty retreated to his own work. John sought out Sherlock.

Moriarty had mentioned at the beginning, that Sherlock would never allow for John to imbibe something he knew to be dangerous. Perhaps his husband was unaware of the adverse reactions of memory loss and hazy nightmares. If he wasn’t, John was sure he would take his concerns more seriously than Jim had.

The words, “You’re being ridiculous John, it’s only tea,” cut him far deeper that Jim’s dismissal. 

“A drink that has been the only change in my routine or diet, and has led to dizziness and an unnerving loss of time,” John argued through gritted teeth.

“You caught a small chill and it amplified because you refused to let yourself rest,” Sherlock retorted. “As an upcoming physician you should know about letting your body mend rather than supposing it capable of an accelerated healing process. Or worse, to blame your affliction on an entirely innocuous object.”

“And as someone so observant,” John nearly spat the word, “you should know when repeated correlation begins to determine causation.” 

“Clearly I should have sent for a tutor a while ago,” Sherlock wasn’t necessarily shouting, but his words seemed to fill the room with a malicious miasmic quality, “if you come up with these ridiculous theories in order to cure your boredom.”

“ _Boredom_ ,” John repeated incredulously. He clung to anger to avoid the sadness crystallizing his heart, and the anxious suspicion churning in his gut over Sherlock’s motivations in being deliberately belittling. “You think it’s idle fancy that causes me to lose the recollection of getting into bed. You think that boredom has been giving me restless sleep and dizzy spells? I truly wish it was just my own imagination Sherlock. But to receive so many ailments on top of each other is the cause of _something_ , and I will not be shoved aside like a raving child.”

He stormed out before Sherlock could retort or apologize. He was not in the mood to hear either. Since his husband and his friend would not hear his plea, then it was left to him to discover the truth for himself.

Later, as he examined each and every plant in the greenhouse for some strange strain he had never seen before, he began to wonder if he was truly going mad. It certainly could not be normal, to search for the infamous tea plant just so he could put an end to this.

He wasn’t even sure what he was meant to be looking for. It wasn’t as if he was an expert botanist. He’d have no way of knowing if the plant was even harmful to him. And he couldn’t just destroy the project of his companion out of paranoia. 

Then he remembered that there was an alchemist within the town. Not a physician by any means but the closest one could call upon for an emergency this far from civilization. She specialized in herbal remedies. If anyone, aside from Moriarty and Sherlock, could identify the properties, it would be Ms. Hooper.

Yet there still remained the issue of finding the blasted plant. His searches turned up nothing he didn’t already recognize. There had been no tampering with any of the plants to create some strange strain. The only place he’d failed to check was the locked area.

John’s hand clenched involuntarily at the realization, which crushed the stem he’d been examining. 

It couldn’t come from there. Sherlock had said that those plants were exclusively poisonous. Why would Jim be breeding a tea that came from poison? Unless they were trying to—

No. John knew the effects of poison. He’d studied belladonna, monkshood and lily-of-the-valley. There was no way he’d been served a brew of the stuff or else he’d be long dead by now.

Like being pricked with a needle, John recalled fever and a weakness so thorough his limbs became useless hunks of flesh and bone. The rest was clouded with obscurity. But he’d been incapacitated, possibly even delirious. 

John felt cold sweat trickle down his neck. Did the cause of his ailment really contain so devastating an answer? 

John tried to reason with himself. Perhaps it was an inert strand, kept behind locked doors for convenience’s sake. He only needed to find the plant that was being cultivated and dried. Jim probably had a batch stored and prepared behind the door. 

He would just need to have it examined. Then he’d know for sure.

John couldn’t possibly go about this through honest means. Even though he wanted to with every increment of his being. But if Jim and Sherlock had been so dismissive to the idea that the drink had been to blame for his illness, then God only knew what they’d say if John tried to accuse them of feeding him poison.

He imagined Sherlock’s betrayed expression, and heartbreak swelled in his chest. 

Which meant he’d have to acquire the key himself. He knew Jim and Sherlock kept a set of keys to their more guarded possessions in a hidden cabinet in the study. Sherlock had showed it to him to impress him, as he’d come up with the mechanism himself.

John remembered the delight he’d seen in Sherlock’s eyes at having someone who recognized his genius and praised him for it, rather than envied or scorned him. Crushing guilt threatened to buckle his resolve. But John needed answers. And no one was willing to give them to him. 

Tonight, John decided. He would do it tonight after everyone in the house had fallen asleep. It wasn’t as if he was permanently stealing the key, he was only going to borrow it for a short while. Just so he could eliminate the terrible assumptions twisting his heart to pulp.

As he walked back to the house, John knew himself and his companions too well to know he’d be able to fool them for long. He couldn’t keep a neutral façade when his instincts and reason were at war. So he pulled aside a servant, and told them to deliver a message to the other two lords that he’d be indisposed for the rest of the evening. 

John went to sleep in a most fitful state. It seemed that no matter what excuse he thought of, his mind looped back to the strange drink and the secrets being kept from him. Sherlock never returned to bed, but that was no wonder. They had yet to discuss their argument and reach a civilized conclusion. 

His heart ached at how frequent their fights had become. He smothered any thoughts of guilt from his mind. After all, he was not being told the whole truth. He was in the right to feel frustrated. John could understand Moriarty keeping secrets from him, and even Sherlock had a right to privacy. But to be so dismissive of him, to manipulate him away from a possible answer for no discernable reason, that was an acidic contemplation.

Try as John might, his eyes constantly closed but never found peace. He let out a frustrated sigh. When he opened them, Harry was holding his arm. 

The funeral clothes were well into tatters now. Strips of flesh clung to her exposed bones. The veil covered her face, only to courteously spare John the decayed visage of his only sister. 

She was tracing the veins of his arm over and over again. She fluttered her pointed fingers at his wrist and the inside of his elbow. John remembered this gesture. It was an old game they played as children to pass the time while they huddled in their room while their father spouted abuse at their invisible and long dead mother. The point of the game was to tickle the skin until the other couldn’t stand it. If one pulled away, they admitted defeat. It was the best way to enjoy themselves without making attention-drawing noise. John, in this sense, conceded at once, but Harry held his arm still despite the surrender. 

“Truth is never confined to one confession, followed by a return to normalcy John,” Harry conspired in a voice of reeking meat. “It goes on and on and on. Endlessly spiraling until you reach the yawning depths of depravity.” When her fingers trailed the old path down to his wrist, she hooked under his skin with an ivory claw, and dug a shallow track.

She slid her way back up to his elbow. With delicate precision, she pinched at a bit of skin that John could see like the rings on a stump, and slowly pulled down. All the way down she went, taking the top layer of his skin. She reached his wrist and let it dangle there like a sheet hung to dry. She came back up and began the process all over again.

His arm was free from her grip, yet moving the limb seemed as impossible as moving a pen solely with his thoughts. She repeated the grotesque practice for a fourth time before speaking again, “Each one feels more painful than the last. Until you reach the final one.”

She stopped her ministrations to look him in what John presumed was the empty caverns of her eyes, “That one will be your undoing.” 

Forgoing gentleness, she yanked the rest of it down with the ease of a butcher and a hung rabbit. His arm bone glistened black with his own blood in the moonlight.

When he was finally able to blink again, she was gone, and his arm was unmarked.

The sound of steady breathing and the presence of a solid and warm body told him that Sherlock had silently crept into bed. Whatever had been occupying him must have caused him to fall into exhaustion, because he didn’t stir as John minutely shifted himself out of the covers and stepped into the hall. 

He walked through the dark halls, keeping close to the thicker shadows and mindful of any creaking floorboards. 

A few hours ago his heart had been beyond his control. Palpitating with incomprehensible dread. Now it provided a steady rhythm to set his steps. 

For once he was glad for having spent so much time within the mansion. He knew these halls almost as well as the original residents. The only people who surpassed his knowledge was most certainly the staff. He listened for any approaching footsteps, but all were fast asleep. 

The door to the study was unlocked, and the lack of gas lights and flickering fireplace flames indicated no one was inside. He pushed open the door, and winced at the small creak it produced. He waited, crouched and anxious in the doorway, but there was no confused inquiry or raising of an alarm.

He crept in and shut the door behind him. The thick curtains blocked all moonlight and the fire was dulled to embers. With no illumination John could only make out the shadowy outlines of the books and furniture. It was no matter; he knew his goal. He did not intend to dawdle and be caught.

He made his way over to the heavy desk. His steps were swifter, now that he was so close to his target. He went around to the chair’s side of the desk, and dropped down to his hands and knees. His fingers scraped under the seam where the flat top met the middle drawer. He pushed in, and a small cuboid of hollow wood dropped open, allowing a ring of keys to slide free and clatter onto the floor.

John bit his tongue to avoid the impulse to curse. 

For several breathless moments, John only heard the wind rattling the panes and his heart beating in his throat. He let out a steady breath, and picked the keys up into his hand.

Footsteps immediately resounded outside the door before the handle was being opened. 

John clenched the keys in his fist to stifle their chiming. He slid further under the desk, as silent as a brush of fabric. Whatever small noises he made was covered by the guest humming to himself.

John recognized the voice of Moriarty headed towards the desk. He gently pressed his hand against his mouth to keep his breathing confined to his nose. He saw a small glow cast shadows around his hiding place, and heard a thump directly above his head as something was set on the desk.

The lantern showed Jim’s shadow warped by flickering light as he idly shuffled through papers. John kept his eyes on the silhouette, waiting for the moment when it froze with awareness and anger. 

A panicked part of him begged to spring forward. To confess to the whole thing and be done with it. He would admit his wild follies, Jim would be appalled at his actions but laugh them away amicably, and they’d tell the story to Sherlock over breakfast as everything set itself to rights again.

He strangled that urge, never blinking at Jim’s jumping shadow. 

Eventually, when sweat had made a steady trail down John’s spine, the man left with his gathered documents, humming a lilting tune. John waited until he heard the click of the door, the last of the footsteps, and several dozen heartbeats, before he let out the anxiety that had been lodged in his lungs.

He resisted the demand to scramble out from the desk and the study. John knew the danger was only supposedly gone. He still had to reach the greenhouse before the staff woke for dawn shifts. 

He crept out as carefully as he previously had, his nerves strung even tighter than before. The stairs invited discovery, so he hurried down those. He knew they were too well kept to creak or groan under his weight. He felt exposed in the sparse entrance, where minimal decoration and open space spoke of grandeur more eloquently than cluttered luxuries. John wondered when such a lovely place had become a warzone that he must tread through.

In his nightclothes and bare feet, making the walk to the greenhouse was difficult. He kept to the shoveled path he’d made for himself. Any wayward bare footprints in the snow would arouse curiosity if not suspicion. His breath fogged in front of him, but it was not so cold that his teeth chattered. Perhaps he simply hadn’t been exposed long enough, for his feet already felt like hunks of stone. 

He ignored his discomfort, and set a quick pace. People shouldn’t have been rising for another few hours, but they were precious few. And John would have no way of knowing the time out here, for he had no pocket watch and predawn light wouldn’t come until well into the hours for chores.

The door to the greenhouse was unlocked as always, and the constant warmth was a blessed relief on his extremities. His face felt damp from sweat and steam, and he hoped it wouldn’t freeze when he was forced to step outside again. 

John practically ran for the locked section. The key was warm from his hand, but his fingers were clumsy with lingering cold. He slid it into the padlock, and when he heard the click of the mechanism releasing, his heart skipped a beat. 

All too late he remembered the voices from the other day. The scratching, the pounding from the other side, the ghastly voices. Yet none of that happened now. John held the doorknob in his grip, but there was no sudden yank from the other side. There wasn’t a chorus of screeching triumph, or bloodcurdling laughter. Just the sound of his own breathing and the creaking hinges of the door as he swung it open.

The area was home to dozens of plants. Neatly arranged and lined, they were clearly marked with neat penmanship at the front of each plant box with their Latin name. John recognized foxglove, death cap, and hemlock, but a few were unfamiliar. He eliminated a few of the unknowns due to having seen them in pictures, even if he couldn’t recall the name. One stood out from the rest. 

It had red berries growing from stems in grouped clusters. The serrated edges of the leaves gave it the appearance of shattered emeralds. John had only seen the berries in one such place before. When they’d been growing out of his skin in an unholy nightmare.

He backed away from them, feeling the hairs of his nape stand on end. He moved so quickly that he bumped a shelf lined with labeled containers of dried poisons. He turned around to steady it, knowing that even one misplacement would mean disaster. That’s when he saw the one jar that was unlabeled. 

John opened it, and saw what he assumed was the dried remains of the plant that had been featured so graphically in his dreams. A faint aroma of citrus arose from the ceramic, and he finally felt like he had his answer. The implications of which were devastating.

Sherlock and Jim had explicitly told him this was a room of deadly concoctions. If what he was holding was the true source of his troubles, then John had been betrayed in the foulest of ways.

Turmoil churned his insides. He shook it off. There was still no guarantee that this was what was given to him, or even that it was deadly. Jim had said it was a side project. It was possible this was one where the effects had been made inert and John just had a coincidental case of the flu. 

He ignored how much coincidence this theory relied upon. 

In any case, he could have this tested if he brought it to the apothecarian. He didn’t have anything to carry the loose leaf, apart from his own clothes or whatever he could cup in his hand. Since he didn’t want to risk bringing the whole jar with him and being caught with it, he’d have to smuggle some in his fist until he could store it discreetly. 

He poured out a small amount, put the lid back on the jar, made sure his presence had not left a trace, and left. 

John ran across the frozen ground into the mansion. A quick glance at a longcase clock told him he had minutes to get back to the study to return the keys, sequester the evidence, and get into bed without Sherlock noticing his absence. 

All was still silent within the halls. John’s footsteps padded softly along the carpet, unable to take the early night’s careful tread. He hoped the rush of blood to his limbs from anxiety and exertion dispelled all lingering cold. It would not do to have Sherlock question why his husband was practically frozen if he’d been asleep under their blankets.

He knocked on the door of the study to prevaricate being a member of the staff, but no one responded. John entered the empty room, hurried to the desk, and returned the keys to their original place.

After he closed the door, he felt a great relief lift from his shoulders. Even though he knew he was not done with his task. John hadn’t so much as made it halfway to his room when he was proven right.

“Johnny!” Jim called out from behind him. John felt his heart clamor in his chest. In the instant it took him to turn around, he crossed his arms behind him at the wrist in a sort of deferential pose that he prayed to the Almighty appeared casual. 

“Up and about rather early this morning aren’t you?” Jim asked as he cocked his head to the side. 

“I could say the same,” John said, “I hope it wasn’t urgent business that called you out of slumber so early?”

“Not at all. It’s always the persistent little problems that are the most aggravating Johnny, remember that when you practice medicine with undeserving laymen. Now what caused you to arise at this ungodly hour?” 

“Sleeplessness,” John half-lied, feeling sick at the omission even while the leaves in his hand clumped together from his sweat. “I thought I’d wander to get my mind to settle so I could finally rest.”

“Ah, still disturbed at the supposedly mysterious cause of your ailments?” Jim’s tone was one laced with mockery, but not enough to justify the claim of an insult.

“Not anymore. I believe I have it all figured out now.” Again, it was not entirely a lie.

“Really?” Jim sounded pleasantly surprised, “Well that is good to hear.”

“I do apologize if I caused you any amount of grief earlier. Though I think Sherlock received the brunt of it, much to my shame.” John said before Moriarty could ask any further questions.

“You were concerned about your health,” Jim waved in dismissal, “any man turns to an explanation that places blame in the name of convenience, even for the most rational among us.”

John’s shoulders sagged in relief, “Thank you. Your forgiveness means a great deal to me.”

“Which of course leads us to do irrational things,” Moriarty continued without acknowledging John’s sincerity, “such as break into quarantined rooms and steal items that are incredibly dangerous to our health.”

His hand shot forward and caught John’s wrist in a vice grip. 

John’s air left him in a surprised whoosh as Jim pulled forward the arm that held the dried plants. 

“Bit of advice, Mr. Watson-Holmes,” Moriarty had never called him that before, and it sent ice racing through John’s veins, “when you’re trying to be subtle about your thievery, be careful that it doesn’t leave a trail.”

He nodded down to the floor, where a few small dark flecks had fluttered onto the carpet. He used John’s distraction to squeeze hard on the joint of his wrist, causing the fingers to open reflexively. The hard earned evidence scattered amongst the fibers. 

John cried out in startled pain and tried to break away. Jim reestablished his hold and shoved John back against the wall. An antique portrait fell and shattered beside them. It echoed the cracking of John’s trust and love. 

“What did you touch?” Moriarty asked in a dark voice John had never heard before. His hand was slammed onto the wall once more, “What did you see?” Jim yelled the question in John’s face. 

“Nothing,” John shouted back. “Only the unmarked jar of loose leaves. I didn’t touch any of the _poisonous_ flora. Now let go of me!”

John shoved Moriarty away with his free hand. The raised voices and the use of violence galvanized him to act, and destroyed any compunction he had about abusing Jim in such a manner.

There was a moment when the shadows of the hall and the snarl on Jim’s face turned his visage akin to a bloodthirsty gargoyle. The sight startled John so thoroughly that his legs involuntarily halted before their flight towards his room. Then Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was gone.

“John,” Moriarty’s voice had turned so unequivocally gentle that it caused John’s stomach to roil, “I do not believe I can adequately express the depths of my disgrace. I saw what you were hiding, had even smelled it due to my superior olfactory senses, and the worry I felt over your possible harm overrode all rationality.”

John didn’t respond. He remained unmoving against the wall as he watched Jim explain himself. He felt very much like he had just come across a venomous cobra, and wanted to avoid making any sudden movements lest it strike and fill his veins with paralyzing lies. 

“I understand how you must perceive this situation,” Jim continued, “and I cannot imagine your confusion and fear. But I can assure you, all you held was the result of one of our experiments, dried for testing its properties against a fresh plant, nothing more. It is only ever intended for ingestion by our laboratory rodents. Never a human specimen.”

John still refused to speak. Jim’s expression turned to one of painful regret. As if John’s reticence caused him genuine harm.

“I do not expect you to forgive me, for I behaved atrociously. I can assure you that the recipe I used for the concoction that has caused you so much anxiety is not the one that you held in your hand. I would never do such a thing John. The plants that I use are cultivated in my own quarters. I never mentioned it because I did not think it relevant. I never suspected that you thought me capable of doing such a heinous thing as-” Moriarty stopped himself. He breathed deeply again, and John heard the catch in his throat as he tried to bring himself under control.

“But I understand you were searching for answers. These were the most logical and accessible. You were working without knowledge of all of the facts, that is my fault. I accept that responsibility. Your suspicions are not without justification; which I suppose we can at least thank God that it wasn’t foundationless paranoia. If you would like, we can go up to my rooms now and you can see the damned plant for yourself.”

A part of John’s mind thought that he should. It would be only logical to lay the matter to rest with his own eyes. All other aspects of his mind and body begged him to flee, because this was exactly what he had wanted ever since the suspicion had rooted in his mind. Which made everything so exceedingly simple to forgive and forget that it could only be yet another deception.

Wasn’t it? This was surely just another lie to lure him into security. That had to be the motivation. He’d seen the danger and madness in Jim’s eyes, no matter how briefly. Or had that been a trick of the light? Perhaps it was an exaggeration from his overwrought mind, and what he’d seen was a reasonable outburst of anger and worry.

John felt so unsure of himself that if he had not been leaning against the wall, he was sure he would have lost his footing and slid to the floor. 

He needed to retreat and recuperate. If he did see the logical explanation with his own eyes, he’d either collapse from shame or scream his frustration to the heavens. John required time to gather his wits before they scattered like dandelion seeds beset by the wind.

“No,” John finally replied, “no that…that won’t be necessary Jim. I just need some time alone. To organize my thoughts and come up with a suitable apology, more than likely.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair. A smear of sweat clung to his palm when he pulled it away. “Consider the issue forgotten until then.”

Jim smiled at him uncertainly. John wanted to thrash him for not betraying anything with an ill timed smirk or a condescending snicker. To not give up this whole charade, if that was what it was, right then and there, just so John could have some peace in his own thoughts.

“Of course Johnny. Though do consider the apology unnecessary, when you are able. Call on me at any time if you wish to speak. I’ll clarify or enact anything you ask if it will set things right.”

John nodded and smiled reassuringly, although he knew it was a watery and insubstantial example. 

How he returned to his own rooms was a mystery. It felt as though everything was being perceived through a fogged lens while he tried to navigate a floor that refused to stop rocking. As he fell onto the bed, he realized Sherlock was not in it. He looked around the room, only half able to perceive its contents. His husband was not one of them. 

Excuses as to where he could have possibly gone were strung together in John’s mind before disappearing like cobwebs disrupted by a broom. He found that he didn’t have the energy to care. Not when he felt nauseous at his suspicions, his deceitful excursion, the discovery of what he had been so _sure_ was the answer to his problems, as much as being the creator of new horrors. 

Despite feeling wide awake, his body and mind were overtaxed from the night’s events. Soon exhaustion swept over him, and he fell into a light sleep. 

He awoke later to see a tray laden with sandwiches and biscuits on his night stand. Sherlock was still nowhere in the room, but a folded note in his neat handwriting explained his whereabouts. 

_Would have stayed, consoled, and recompensed until the sun turned cold, but an urgent matter in the town required my presence. I shall be back tonight if the weather remains favorable. Stay safe my husband. With great love, SH._

A nattering part of him wondered why Sherlock bothered to include the detail of his safety. He shut it up in irritation, too tired and sick with confusion to bother adding to his anxieties. 

He wolfed down the food, but when it came time to wash it down, he hesitated. The drink was in a decanter and not a teapot, and when he poured it out it appeared as nothing more than clear water. John felt relief soften the lines of his shoulders. 

He finished his lunch and wondered what he was going to do today. He was sure that whatever he’d dropped onto the carpet was long swept away by now. Going back for the keys was also out of the question, since he didn’t doubt Moriarty had locked the study, and had hidden the keys in a different spot.

He could attempt to break into the locked section himself. John wasn’t an expert at picking locks, but Harry and he had learned a few things in their mischievous and daring youth. He’d need a few tools, but they were easily acquired or fashioned. After that there would be no delay to head into town. Sherlock could try and run in front of the horse himself and he’d be shoved out of the way or learn to dodge.

Disgust at himself wracked through John’s consciousness. What was he thinking? Was he seriously contemplating breaking into a dangerous zone again, fleeing his own home, demanding answers from a doubtlessly overworked woman, to even considering injuring the love of his life, and all to satisfy his desperation for a truth that might not even exist? 

Moriarty had offered, in great confidence and sympathy, to have John examine his room for the evidence of his little experiment. Yet John was planning more subterfuge. Was Sherlock right, in that he had become so desperate out of boredom, that he was finding monsters in the shadows made by the light of their companionship? 

John denied those doubts with so much ferocity that he crushed the sandwich in his grip. No, he deserved to know the truth. No matter the beautiful excuses he’d been given, that was all they were. Carefully crafted lies compelling him to turn a blind eye. If there was truly nothing to hide, Moriarty would have offered to go with John into town to have it tested without interference or objection. 

John remained firm in his decision. He would keep to his original plan, and either bring to light a terrible truth, or make himself the biggest fool while he groveled for forgiveness. At this point, either was better than this vertiginous uncertainty. 

However, as soon as John stood from the bed, his legs collapsed from underneath him. Where once he would have been filled with confusion, dread and anger overcame him. He dragged himself up the nightstand, and with his coordination failing, swept the whole tray of goods onto the ground. 

The water darkened the carpet in a growing puddle, but his focus was on the clumps of dark green in the sandwiches that he had mistaken for generic herbs. Nausea flipped his stomach until he couldn’t hold himself up against the furniture. He dropped to the floor and dry heaved beside the puddle. 

John prayed that he could vomit the substance, and perhaps he’d be free of the effects. Despite his wishes, and his quavering stomach, nothing came forth. Desperation moved his trembling limbs, and he started to reach inside of his mouth. The pads of his fingers had barely touched his tongue before it was yanked away. 

“None of that John, you’ll stain the carpet,” Sherlock chided him. It was the last thing he heard.

~~~

Worms wriggled and crawled inside of him. They swam in his veins like salmon in a stream. They pushed and prodded their way through the blood dark tunnels, finding his secret places and burrowing inside of them. In and out of his body they dug furrows, tracing old paths and creating new ones by chewing through his skin and tissue. 

John’s skin bulged and rippled with their multitudes. They became his muscles, his organs, his blood, until he was a constantly shifting mass of pink and ropey flesh. He couldn’t withstand their presence anymore, so he opened his eyes.

Sherlock’s strong fingers moved in and out of John’s arse with practiced but lazy efficiency as he pointed out, “He’s already suspicious.” His tone was not one of complaint or protest, merely observation. “When he realizes he’s lost more time it won’t exactly be conducive to our innocence.”

“You weren’t there,” Jim said with grave assurance, “he was holding the damned stuff in his hand. Like a child caught with a sweet. When I considered what he might’ve seen, that he was possibly making preparations to flee out of fear, I lost the grip on my control. He saw what was underneath this veneer for that brief instant. It might be temporarily put to rights for now, but the mere possibility of him leaving arose a monstrous need to _possess_ him. I couldn’t wait for another period of blissful ignorance.” 

Sherlock was silent. It was impossible to discern if it was from shock or understanding. “You do not enjoy it when he’s afraid of you, I perceive?”

“Oh, far from it,” Jim hissed in pleasure, “that was the only bearable part of the whole ordeal. His wide eyes, his carefully still body, the firm set of his chin to keep it from dropping open. Oh, and those lovely little lips pressed thin to prevent trembling or screaming. It was delectable. The sight was also what galvanized this urgent session. You should try it sometime. I think you’d find great enjoyment from it.”

“I prefer him regarding me in admiration rather than fear, Moriarty.” In and out the digits went, leaving him stuffed and then achingly empty. It was a sublime torture, and one that he couldn’t wake from.

“Liar,” Jim teased, “you’d greedily take any regard he gave you, so long as his attention was focused solely upon your person.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, which was as much an admittance as a verbal confirmation. The fingers slid out of his body, and left him exposed long enough that apprehension began to lazily drift across John’s mind. He was lifted and shifted until he lay flat atop of someone.

His face was nestled in the crook of a neck, and the heady scent of sweaty skin compelled his tongue to lave upon the unknown body. Someone went rigid underneath him, and dug fingers into the dip above his buttocks. Realization preceded thick shame and John felt his face heat.

“Look who’s eager,” Jim’s voice crooned behind him. So it was Sherlock who was moving John’s legs wider by spreading them with his own. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was beginning to enjoy this,” Jim continued as he pulled John’s hips further down.

There was a confusing flurry of grasping hands on his arms, back, and pelvis. Then a cock was sliding into him and several voices echoed their pleasure from the walls. Sherlock’s hand gripped the back of John’s neck to keep him steady. Jim’s fingers were reslicked before they carefully edged around the pulsating length filling John’s hole. 

John trembled from something deeper than muscle weakness. After a glacial age of being stretched while his own prick hardened between sweaty stomachs, another blunt crown pressed against John’s entrance. Sensation jolted from his arse to tingle at his scalp and the soles of his feet. 

The burn of his body lingered like a smoldering coal behind his navel. At the thickest juncture, he was certain his body couldn’t accommodate any more. The other two men stopped and waited with the patience of hunters before continuing. 

Eventually John was wedged between two bodies, unable to move from the sheer limitations of fullness to his body. He did not even twitch, unless they dictated it. Slowly and precisely, the two men moved together. One dragged themselves out while another pushed deeper.

No one was able to keep silent. Groans, pants and the wet sounds of one body accepting two was a lewd chorus. It was akin to a symphony to most of the trio, and a sickening discord to one of them. 

There was no end to the conjunction of pleasure and pain for John. He was at once at his limit and eager for more. He had ceased to become a man and was an instrument of debauchery, meant to be used for the fulfillment of others while he soaked in hedonism. 

He was never once empty while hard flesh continued to move inside of him. Unable to move, his only task was to accept what was being done to his body and his mind. It was simultaneously herculean and the easiest action to undertake. 

John’s fingers curled into the sheets to help him hold onto sense. Sherlock’s own hands wriggled underneath to clasp him close. John was now completely captured by the heat and weight of two human bodies. 

John clenched his eyes shut and waited for the swiftly approaching climax to rip him asunder. It happened when both cocks aligned perfectly, and pressed against his pleasure spot in an upwards thrust. John couldn’t be sure in the aftershocks, but he thought he’d heard himself choking on his own saliva.

When both men found themselves thrusting into an overspent and boneless John, they soon reached their own endings. One managed to pull himself free as he ejaculated, which coated John in a warm and sticky mess on the outside, as well as on his insides. 

After Jim had caught his breath again he said, “Well now, I believe that has done wonders in improving my temperament.” His fingers probed inside of the abused red rim of John’s hole. “I don’t think you’ve been this loose even when we’ve taken you twice in one night Johnny-boy.”

“Must you be so obscene,” Sherlock mildly complained. His voice reverberated through John’s shaking chest, “You do a great deal to destroy the peaceful lassitude of post-coitus.”

“Oh shush with that,” Jim said, “feel him yourself.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand before he could pull away and pushed a pale finger in beside his. 

Sherlock said nothing. He curiously pushed and probed along John’s interior until the man was choking back small mewling noises. “Hm,” Sherlock finally allowed, “it certainly merits a repeat. To see if he obtains the same softness or if he becomes even more,” his fingers shifted, “pliable.” 

“God bless your scientific mind,” Jim praised with a manic grin. “Now where are your spare cloths? We need to clean up before our dear boy here becomes glued to the sheets.”

John knew that there was more idle talk after that. Discussions of his own body, what to do about his suspicions and, of all things, the state of the weather. His mind slipped over every word like the slide of a raindrop over glass. 

As he sunk into oblivion, John wasn’t sure if he preferred the visions of the worms, or the casual desecration of his body.

~~~

 

As John awoke, he was certain that he had never felt a worse discomfort. He ached from head to toe. Perhaps he had been split down the middle and then sewn back together, for that was the only sensible explanation for his stinging. 

He turned over in bed, and hissed at the flare inside of his body. A separate hand began rubbing comforting circles into his back. John moaned his relief and gratitude. 

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock gently asked in deference to John’s state. 

“Like I’ve been dragged back from the dead,” John lamented. He turned around to face his husband, who was watching him with concern and affection. “What happened?”

“I’m afraid you suffered some slow acting side effects from the plant that you…acquired. You were feverish and delirious. Jim found you after he’d heard you collapse onto the floor. Do you not remember?”

It was hard for John to follow the words. His mind felt as thick as a winter stew. He certainly remembered the wretched fight in the hall with Moriarty. He remembered…being determined. Assured in a pursuit of truth. After that his thoughts became twisted in cobwebs. 

“No,” John said past the cotton dryness in his mouth, “I don’t. But I only held the poison, I didn’t consume it,” he opened up his hand that had held the leaves. On his palm, right below his longest finger, was a small cut. 

“The oils had entered your bloodstream,” Sherlock explained, “John, what could you have possibly been thinking, entering that area? I told you how dangerous those species were.”

John’s mind whirled. He’d had reasons, very good ones. He knew that. He could faintly recall Moriarty using them against him. Yet he couldn’t remember a single point that would make Sherlock understand. He was too focused on the incision that he was certain had not been there before.

“I don’t-I never-” perhaps John was about to faint again. His vision kept swimming. “I was only trying to-”

“I know,” Sherlock interrupted, “you were trying to find answers to a question that doesn’t exist. Jim informed me after I was able to come back. We both understand your confusion, but for it to compel you to these acts is quite worrisome John. This could’ve led to far worse than confusion and restlessness.”

The cut was small enough that he could have received it without noticing. He could have scraped it against the sharp edge of paper, or perhaps something in the greenhouse before he’d clutched the tea in his hand. But, no, that was too coincidental to be true, wasn’t it? 

He’d been confronted about his suspicions, and then wound up sick in bed for mysterious reasons once again? This reeked of foul play. Or was the story Sherlock wove so perfectly tailored because it was perfectly truthful?

“Did I drink anything before I lost myself?” John didn’t realize he’d asked the question aloud until he heard the words leave his mouth. 

Sherlock sighed like he was deeply saddened by the question. “Perhaps. Your room was cleaned while you were unconscious. You will have to speak with Moriarty, who’s been as distraught about your condition as I have been. But, my dear John, you must understand that questions like these are the reason behind what I must tell you next.”

John tried as hard as he could, but the memories after speaking with Jim were either clouded or missing entirely. He couldn’t remember if he’d consumed anything before his loss of time. Worse still, he couldn’t recall what had happened between oblivion and now. 

John didn’t think there had been a dream, but there was an unsettling sensation of wriggling that refused to leave his body. He finally caught the last of Sherlock’s words and looked up in apprehension, “What do you mean?”

“Clearly your weakened state has caused your mind to cast illusions on character and motivation. It taints your mind, and calls delusion reason.” Sherlock passed his hand over John’s brow to wipe away sweat. It was almost a symbolic gesture of wiping away the supposed plague of John’s mind. 

“As it stands, until you are hale in both body and mind, the greenhouse has been locked away.”

“What? No!” John surged upward, but a wave of dizziness felled him more effectively than Sherlock’s firm hand on his shoulder. “You can’t! I just—I need it in order to-”

“It is only temporary my love,” Sherlock assured him with the gentlest and most patient of tones. “And your plants will be well tended to by the groundskeeper in the meantime. But until we can be assured that your condition has been improved, it is best to keep you from hurting yourself again.” 

John suddenly thought of rabbits, and wondered if this was what they felt like when they had their paw caught in a steel trap. He could only dumbly stare at his husband while he moved to get the meal placed by their bedside. 

It was an argument John had no hope of winning. Their assurances that they understood John’s initial point of view only solidified the confidence of their own perspectives. Both men said that they knew John’s grievances, and saw no fault in them. So they would do their utmost to prove him wrong.

It was a sane and understanding approach, and John should count himself lucky that all that had come of this debacle was the loss of access to the greenhouse. Yet impotent rage churned in his stomach like a tempest. What a convenient and neat little solution that put John squarely in the corner of a sickly patient, meant to be cared for and pitied rather than heeded. 

When Sherlock turned around, he caught some of the scowl on John’s face before he could smooth it away. “I know it seems unfair now,” Sherlock said as he handed John some bland porridge, to be sure he kept it down, “but I promise that when you are yourself again you will see this for the necessary precaution that it is. Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to do away with all locks, poisoned zones or otherwise. It will just take time.”

John dutifully ate his food, but said nothing. He could say nothing at all, for every part of him wished to scream until his voice gave out. 

Sherlock did not press for conversation, which was a blessing. He also refused to leave the room, which was less so. He said he was only observing John’s health to make certain there wasn’t a relapse, but John also knew that it was to make sure he didn’t make another venture for the greenhouse. 

Not that John thought he could do much good there anyway. Doubtless they had found an even more secluded hiding spot for the keys that led into the area of interest. So Sherlock and John both sat in silence, with the oppressive air of all that remained unspoken crushing them both.

By the end of the day John felt more like himself, and was able to walk around without much pain. Sherlock saw how that had slightly alleviated his mood and brought more news, “I received a telegram today, from the retired professor I got in contact with.”

The argument about John’s education had faded so entirely from his mind that he was caught off guard when it was brought up. Despite everything he’d been through, the hope of broadening his horizons elated him. “What did he say?”

“He’d be happy to tutor you. He owes Moriarty and I for quite a few favors, and teaching to an eager pupil is certainly one of the more pleasant ways to waive those debts. He’ll be here by the end of spring. He’s rather on in years and prefers more favorable weather to travel.”

“Yes, of course,” John nodded while his mind raced. Perhaps this was even better news than just receiving the education he craved. If he had an objective eye within the house, perhaps he would feel less alone. Or even obtain context or clarification of what he perceived day to day.

John would have hoped for a sooner arrival, but maybe even that was a blessing in disguise. With time, he could wait out his own suspicions. He could go about his daily life and observe any further discrepancies. If none arose, all the better for it. John would gladly take a diagnosis of feverish delusions if it meant he could go back to the peaceful state of before. If incidents continued to occur, then John could gather the instances as evidence while he collected physical clues. He would present them to the former doctor, who would serve as a credible source to authorities.

John’s spirits were quite lifted. Sherlock saw the change in mood, and tension leeched from him. “Oh, thank the Lord,” Sherlock sincerely said as he set his book on the nightstand, “there’s the good-natured John I know, not the stranger flinching at shadows.”

For a moment, John nearly grimaced. Clearly his husband thought him ‘cured’ of any suspicions of his or Moriarty’s person. While John wished for that to be true, doubts still tainted the regard he held for his husband and friend. It sickened him to have them, but they remained all the same. 

And although John loathed to lie to his husband, when he could still be so very wrong about all of this, strategy dictated that Sherlock believe his own convictions.

“I’m afraid some shadows still remain unduly dark to me,” John confessed, for allowing some truth to slip was the best chance he had at prevaricating. “But remembering the prospects of my future brought a very welcome light that chased away most uncertain flickers.”

Sherlock nodded understandingly, “You’ve been through a harrowing amount of doubt, one that would test the conviction of any man. It’s no surprise to me that some things remain malignantly obscure to you. Though I am confident in the return of your full mental state.”

John smiled wanly, “Support in this time is immeasurable in its appreciation. You and Jim are both unquantified, in this regard.”

“When it comes to you John, you will find that we have scores of patience,” Sherlock smiled. In the recent past, that would have flattered John tremendously. Now it seemed to pose as a veiled threat.

“I’m still rather weary,” John said to avoid further conversation. “I’d prefer if we retired tonight, and then I may continue my humble groveling tomorrow.”

Sherlock chuckled and dimmed the light next to him. “Of course. Good night my husband.”

“Goodnight Sherlock,” John said as he climbed in beside him. There was a tense moment where he wondered if Sherlock would be able to discern the tension in his body if he tried to hold him close in their sleep. Sherlock made no moves to clutch him near, and for that he was grateful. 

~~~

John was sure he had fallen asleep at some point. He had been exhausted enough that sleep seemed as inevitable a calling as death itself. Yet he was staring at the wall of his room, wide awake, with Sherlock now pressed up against his back. The only significant difference was the empty sockets of his sister boring into him from her crouched position by the bed.

“You’re giving up,” she hissed to him, as if concerned that she would rouse the slumbering man beside him.

“I am not,” John whispered back, feeling childlike. “I’m waiting for reinforcements. I cannot hope to argue against the pair of them on my own. An objective party is what I need to set things to rights again.”

“You still doubt yourself, still doubt the validity of your own senses and instincts,” Harry accused, “you’ve signed your fate willingly when you choose to wait.”

“What would you have me do then?” John frustratingly retorted, “Rave about like a madman about my visits from you and the supposed memories that are as lost to me as a sealed chest in quicksand? I’d be lucky if all they did was lock me away like a shameful secret.”

“Fight now, while you have the advantage. They consider you weak, show them otherwise.”

“How?” John repeated, “A lot of good you’ve done, telling me cryptic messages. I don’t know where to start Harry, and they took away the one thing I had to cling to. It’s all well and good to tell me to act but not offer a lead. I thought you were meant to try and protect me?”

For a moment, the apparition appeared to be deeply hurt by his words. He felt regret in saying them, even if what was before him was a faded image of his sibling. John opened his mouth to apologize, but was interrupted.

“You’re right,” she said in that brushing silk whisper, “there are rules, even in Death, we must adhere to. I believed Them. But while I was living, when was I ever one who followed the will of another?” With her veil in place as a gentle barrier, she brushed her exposed teeth against John’s forehead in a pitiful facsimile of a familial kiss. “Follow me John, bring your night candle, and I shall show you the truth.”

John carefully extracted himself from the bed. Harry was gone from the room by the time he stood. He dutifully lit a small candle and placed it in a portable sconce. He hated the idea of bringing such a beacon with him, but if Harry was going to be helpful via his cooperation, then he would obey. When he opened the bedroom door, she was waiting expectantly. 

“Restless spirits are only ever meant to give clues,” she said as she floated down the hall. John kept alert for any other footsteps, but all remained silent. Perhaps he wasn’t even awake, and anyone who caught him would only bring the consequence of waking back in bed.

“I could not assist directly. I could only lead you on the path to the truth. But I will not stand by and watch my little brother fall deeper into ruination.” They passed by the study, which surprised John, but her words inspired a more immediate morbid curiosity.

“What do you mean? Have I truly been poisoned this whole time?” 

“…You will know soon John. We are here.”

John rocked back, surprised at where they’d ended up. “Jim’s room?” He asked incredulously, “Are you mad?”

“You’re the one seeing ghosts John.”

For a moment it was so much like his sister was there in front of him, that his heart cracked with remembering that she wasn’t. “I mean, what is here that cannot be gotten from the plants?”

“Answers,” she responded, “proof. Such things that will surely bring a swift conclusion if you proceed accordingly, though I will not be able to witness it.” She swept forward and brought her arms around his chest to pull him close.

It was a strange sensation, to be tenderly hugged by a dead thing. He felt her bones pressing hard lines into his flesh. “Harry? What do you mean?”

She spoke in a tone even softer than her leaf-rustle whisper. A string of numbers that he didn’t understand, and then, “I have sealed my fate now. It is time. They are coming.”

“Who’s coming? Harry, what is happening?” Despite his increasing urgency John kept his voice quiet. The thought of anyone perceiving him now would be disastrous.

“I told you, I could not interfere. There is a reason why I remained cryptic. But since this is my last chance,” she squeezed him tighter, “at least I have the opportunity to say, I love you John. Goodbye.”

The last syllable had barely left her lips before dozens of blackened skeletal hands shot from the floor. They cinched tightly to her exposed bones, as seamless and unbreakable as manacles. Harriet’s mouth opened wide in a startled scream. The sound echoed in John’s skull as she was pulled out of sight.

Nothing remained of her in that empty hallway. Not the smell of decay or her raspy sobs. John stood paralyzed, dreading the certainty that his sister was now truly lost to him.

It seemed a cruel joke of God, to allow a man to grieve for the same person twice over. He covered his mouth to push back the sobs that threatened to spill forward. John still had work to do. Whatever grave sacrifice Harry had made, he would not let her information go to waste. 

The door to Jim’s room was unlocked. It surprised him at first, but then, who would dare have the gall to enter the second lord of the house’s bedroom uninvited? He left it open as he treaded across the room. Suspicious as it may seem to an outsider, he wanted a clear exit of escape if it was warranted.

Each step seemed to interrupt the soft snoring coming from Moriarty’s bed. Every heartbeat felt designed to give him away. He’d never been in Jim’s room before, and spared a fleeting moment to be surprised at how sparse it appeared. Aside from the necessary furniture and a desk for finishing work, there were no frivolities present.

The only thing that didn’t attest to his apparent utilitarian nature was the fragrant plant growing on the windowsill. At the sight of it, John stopped. 

Jim had said he’d been growing the tea in his room. Possibly to avoid germinating other plants and upsetting the evolutionary growth. It could be that the proof was right in front of him, and he’d been a paranoid fool all along. Or it could be a completely innocuous plant, placed there to dissuade him from inquiry, should the occasion arise, as it nearly did the other day. 

No, this was not the evidence Harry had risked everything for. He remembered the whispered sequence in his ear. Numbers. It had something to do with a string of numbers.

He could barely see in the dark room, the dimmed sconces of the hallway and the dim candle were his only light. The glow reflected off of a small but sturdy safe right beside the desk. John let out a low breath of relief. Jim’s arrogance of his position was clearly an excuse to be lax in his personal security. 

John knelt to the thing, and was grateful for the small flickers of light. He entered in each number with his heart pounding in his ears. 

At the final digit, the lock clacked open. John waited, the door loose in his hand, for Jim to spring up in alarm from his bed. The man snuffled in his sleep, turned over, and was still again.

The stifled air in John’s lungs left with a silent whoosh. He opened the safe, unsure of what he would find. Yet having no expectations still couldn’t prepare him for the slight confusion, and even disappointment, of discovering papers. 

Stacks of them were crammed in the safe. So much so that John set the candle aside in a sudden concern for catching the whole thing alight. Clearly, what was present was what he needed, so he set aside his incredulity and pulled out a sheaf to begin reading. 

He would have loved to sequester it away someplace far safer than having the occupant of the room asleep less than ten yards from him. But he had no idea what he was looking for. With his current luck he would rather not take the chance having the man awaken, realize what had been stolen, and then have John arrested before he could examine all of the documents. No, it was best to stay here, shove them inside, and escape if the man began to stir.

At first, John didn’t understand what he was reading. It seemed to be primarily correspondence between Jim, Sherlock, and countless strangers John had never heard of. Most used pseudonyms, unless it was for droll information like banking statements. 

Phrases like ‘Apply pressure and K will buckle, bring up wife-JM’ or ‘The cousin is in massive debt, he can be reasoned with – SH’ showed up in telegram after telegram. Dread crept up John’s back with clinging spider legs. He had never pressed for much information about his husband’s work. All he knew was that they were prominent business consultants, overseeing countless projects when companies ran into issues that needed creative solving. 

God alive, but John was beginning to feel like the biggest fool in history. However, cryptic messages that contained only the barest wisps of suspicion couldn’t help his situation. Besides, no direct names had been given, so even if he could decipher whatever this alleged to, he’d never be able to prove it.

John sighed and reached in for another file. He opened it up and almost immediately closed it, as they bore the standard seal of official state documents. This implied legality and would therefore be worthless to him. Then the words ‘marriage certificate’ caught up to him, and he froze. 

In the signature section he read the names ‘James A. Moriarty’ and ‘Violet G. Smith’. The date placed it at twelve years ago. John kept his breathing steady. Underneath it was the contract entitling Moriarty to all of Ms. Smith’s funds and assets. There was no documentation of a divorce paper.

Instead, it was another marriage certificate to ‘Sherlock W. Holmes’ and ‘Helen S. Stoner’. That one was ten years old. John heard the paper shake in his grip and willed his hands to still. Snores continued to drift from the bed, so he read on.

Again there was the contract of transference, but no divorce notification. John felt his stomach violently roil.

John pulled each one out of the file. They were dated every two years, all from different parts of the globe. Some were women, a few were men, and there was always a nuptial agreement of a full seizing of monetary liquidations to Sherlock or Jim.

When he reached the final one, addressed to ‘Sherlock W. Holmes’ and ‘John H. Watson’, he cramped his jaw to keep back the wrenching scream. This sheaf contained more than just his signature to sign away his inheritance and, unwittingly, his soul. 

A telegram was dated to the first day he’d met Sherlock at a medical conference, which John had snuck into. “Encouraging new prospect. Look up Watson family at earliest convenience- SH”. John’s heart impaled itself on his ribcage. 

To his shame, he felt the hot prickle of tears at the back of his eyes. Denial swarmed him, screaming from some place that felt as though it would wither and die if his conclusions were true.

Every excuse, from forgery, to believing he was somehow exempt from these cruel machinations, was transparently frail. Somehow, he had the courage, or perhaps a macabre curiosity, to carry on.

The next item was a coroner’s report. Attached to it was a small piece of scrap paper reading, “Keep for future use if physician becomes troublesome. Not the first report he’s bungled, but definitely the most damning. – JM”. John flipped it up, and felt bile sting the back of his throat as he read the name ‘Harriet A. Watson’. 

His eyes skimmed over each tallied box and scribbled piece of medical jargon. ‘Blood around lips, teeth cracked from blunt trauma, vomit crusted at various stages down the throat and sides of face. Bruising under chin and across stomach. Cause of Expiration: excessive whiskey consumption.’

There were speculations of where and how she’d acquired such markings. The stupidity of which seemed to blazon across the page like a beacon. Suddenly, John could see the scenario as if he were there. The bruises were from someone sitting on top of her, to keep her pinned to the ground with her chin tipped up. He teeth cracked as she tried to keep them shut while a bottle was rammed into her mouth. Blood came from the damage of broken glass. The vomit, a result of being forced to guzzle bottle after bottle of whiskey. Continuing to shove it down even after she had long ago lost consciousness. 

John remembered being with Sherlock, entertaining him for tea at his own house, when he’d received the urgent telegram. Sherlock had been there the whole time, a stalwart presence at his side, as they’d pulled back the sheet to reveal his sister’s cleaned face. Through the humming buzz of disbelief, he’d heard them use the phrase ‘excessive whiskey consumption’. He’d believed them. Like a damned fool, he’d believed them. His sister used to hit the bottle hard whether occasion called for it or not. 

Those demons had tormented her abundantly after their father had died. But she had been recovering before Moriarty and Holmes had waltzed into their lives. John had assumed she had fallen into an abyss in her own mind once more, and would never again be able to climb back out. 

John wondered which of them it had been. Had he been sodomized by his sister’s murderer, or did he merely seek out a friendship with him?

His throat made a loud click as he swallowed the agonized wail that was blooming in his heart. He desperately wished her phantom was present once more, so he could apologize. With every breath he possessed, he would beg for forgiveness. 

He clutched the paper hard enough that it made a loud crackle. There was still no disturbance from the bed, and John had the fleeting thought to be grateful that Jim slept far sounder than his husband.

His husband. His mind stretched and molded the word to its limits. He could feel it become hollow rather than hallowed. He’d been deceived, seduced, and had lost his only surviving kin, all for the sake of his family’s inheritance. It became clear that it didn’t matter which of the duo had killed his sister. He’d been lying in a bed of snakes regardless.

It was the image of long sinuous bodies writhing in dirt, slowly becoming sightless and slimy, that jolted another realization through him. Marriages that clearly were no longer in existence, but with their divorce papers mysteriously absent. 

The banging door that amplified voices of ‘come and join us’. Harry’s insistence that restless spirits could only present clues. The restriction against entering the locked area. Jim’s outburst when he realized John had been there. Bright red berries, bursting with wailing faces.

The urge to know crested through him. He carefully placed every paper back in their proper position, hoping any mistake could be attributed to random mixing from moving the documents naturally. 

He could come back for them later. He knew about their existence, and any absence would instantly draw alarm, and he would be pursued. John had the numbers to the safe memorized. 

He crept out of the room, slowly picking up his pace as he headed for the exit. It wasn’t until he was outside in the freezing night that he realized he was still holding his candle. Without a thought, he tossed it into the snow.  
John walked towards the glass greenhouse. The sound of his crunching steps kept tempo to the mantra that had begun in his head. The need to look, the need to know, the need to be certain. Even if he was confident, beyond a doubt, of what he would find. He needed to see it with his own eyes. 

His pace picked up, faster and faster, until the words circled themselves endlessly as he tried to run through the heavy snow. ‘I need to see, I need to see, I need to see’. 

He reached the entrance to the greenhouse, and true to Sherlock’s word, the door was padlocked. He had no time to find the gardener and his keys, and then sort out which one of the dozens was the correct one. In his urgency and shock, John’s mind had become white. It was a blank canvas with striking splashes of blood red and deceitful black. Over and over, his discoveries blotted the simple purity of what he had once cherished. He needed to know. He needed to see.

John wiggled out a loose brick from the greenhouse, and flung it at the door. The glass cracked like broken illusions, but didn’t shatter. He picked it up and hurled it with all of his might. The crack spread to form a spider’s web. This time, when he threw it while thinking of sweet murmurs under bedsheets and promises of never leaving, it fell like a tower constructed out of sand. 

He stepped inside, trying to be mindful of the glass, but his eyes were focused on the locked door. John picked up the brick as he walked towards it. He bashed at the glass over and over, recalling large smiles, consoling words, and tender regards. This time, it only fell part way, and John made short work of the rest as he tried to stymie the blurring of his vision.

Everything was untouched, with its neat little catalogs and precise rows of poison. He went straight for the tall stalk of red berries. Rather than yanking the thing out and leaving with it, he had other designs. His hands went into the black soil. 

Down and down he dug, pulling out clumps of earth and tossing it beside him. He pulled roots from their nests and kept going until he found what he was looking for.

It didn’t take long. They were not deep graves.

A human skull with its jaw missing stared back at him. The dirt had filled the sockets to make black voids. White roots had wrapped around the teeth, and for some reason, he found the sight hysterical. He kept the laughter back, knowing the truly mad sound it would make. 

He pushed aside more dirt. Ivory fingers shifted and lengths of spines twisted from the movement. A few pelvises and several different ulnas, all slowly revealed themselves as John partook in the gruesome dig. He stopped with his hands blackened up to his wrists. He looked around at the other flower beds, and knew their contents without having to scavenge.

Every one of them was filled with the former spouses of the closest facsimile he had to a family. There were no whispers this time. No chants to taunt him into discovering the truth on his own. 

The ghosts were silent. 

Until a high little giggle pierced through John’s nerves, “Goodness me Johnny boy, you certainly are tenacious.” The sound of broken glass crunching under sturdy boots sounded eerily similar to the state of John’s heart.

“All of this running around, getting suspicious with barely more than your own solid instincts. Honestly I think this is why we didn’t choose smart ones when we picked out our…let’s refer to them as ‘beneficiaries’. Oh, but Sherlock was ever so insistent about having you.”

John turned slowly around. Jim was leaning against the edge of the doorframe like a carefree schoolboy, while his legs stretched out to block the exit. 

“Originally,” Jim shrugged, “I had thought he was aiming for your sister. Obviously not under a preference for physical attributes, as you outranked her in every regard. It was more out of a combined advantage. One being the quicker process of marrying a woman, and that she seemed so unfailingly _stupid_.”

John could do nothing. He felt as though he had been frozen in time, forced to hear these callous words until the stars blinked out of existence. 

Jim’s head lolled towards John. The warm whiskey brown of his eyes had turned to unfeeling and empty polished stones. “I mean, really, who goes through the trouble of looking up the history of the Holmes and Moriarty name, confronts the two partners with deep suspicion after discovering some old newspaper headlines, and then only proceeds to threaten them with exposure to the sibling that was being courted?”

The condescending smile Jim had been wearing vanished from his face, “Honestly, that kind of idiocy can drive a man to unknown amounts of agitation.”

Comprehension was the spike that was nailed simultaneously into John’s heart and brain. Jim said, “I usually don’t like getting my hands dirty, but in her case, it was a pleasure.” He crooned the last word. The familiarity slithered into John’s ear.

“Don’t feel too dismayed, I was only speeding along an inevitability. A woman with that many internal demons would have succumbed to her weaknesses eventually. After all, I did find her exiting a pub before I dragged her away into a filthy alley.”

There was a moment when John wasn’t sure if he was about to vomit or erupt into a blind fury. His husband’s voice cut through both urges, “Don’t be crass Jim. She is, or was, technically my sister-in-law.”

Jim didn’t move, so Sherlock was forced to step over his legs. He gave Moriarty an annoyed glance before turning pleading eyes onto John. He looked so beseechingly concerned. John had a pulsating red-smeared thought to stab those cold-colored eyes out of their sockets.

Whispers rose like mist from the flower beds. Now that both murderers were present, the spirits ached to have their grievances and oaths of vengeance acknowledged, even though John was the only one who could hear them. His only indication of the countless mutters and mumblings was a twitch of his fingers.

“John,” Sherlock said, “I am so sorry that you found out about our unfortunate past this way. You were never meant to see this.”

The whispers grew in number. It seemed strange to John that with less than a dozen bodies, their voices could be so cacophonous. Truly, it was more that the dead had a great deal to say, and no opportunity to express it.

“People have died,” John said, as if he still couldn’t believe it. As if the evidence wasn’t picked clean to stark white behind him.

“That’s what people do John,” Sherlock carefully said, “it’s what’s intended for all of us as mortal creatures. We only hastened the process.”

John swallowed, and asked the question that had been searing into his mind, “How much longer?”

Both men gave him expressions of confusion. “How much longer,” John clarified, “was I to be your husband, until I joined them in the dirt?”

Sherlock looked deeply stricken. Jim made a hiss of reproach, “Don’t talk so Johnny! You’re not anything like them. They were all boring, dull, and predictable people. You, however, have been nothing but surprising,” Jim grinned as though the words were meant to be the highest compliment possible.

John wasn’t sure which was worse. To be misled and then literally stabbed in the back when he least suspected, or to be genuinely treasured by these men. ‘Better to join the worms than be trapped in Hell’, his sister’s words rang in his skull. All this time she’d been trying to warn him of a fate worse than death. 

“He’s right John, you’re nothing like them,” Sherlock agreed, “I married you, not out of financial gain, but because I love you. We both hold you in high regard, and we will do our utmost to ensure your happiness for the rest of our lives. You will want for nothing. Let us go back home, and we can discuss how to best develop this relationship in a rational manner.”

Flashes of clinging hands, deep groans, and two sets of tongues and minds working together to peel him apart, came crashing into John’s head. The memories slipped away before he could process them fully, but the damage had been done. 

The loss of time, the feeling of dizziness, the aches and pains in his body when he awoke after bouts of amnesia. He hadn’t been poisoned, he’d been routinely sedated. In order to make him more cooperative, more pliant. To have him become a sexual plaything to two deranged and powerful men. 

The whispers became jeers at his gullibility. They flung slur after slur in such a gentle tone that it coiled like a silken noose around his neck. The viscous sensation of violation seemed to be clamoring for a way out of his skin, and John wondered if he’d erupt into a sticky and red mess out of sheer force of will.

Perhaps it was the sight of Sherlock stepping cautiously forward that fueled John’s next action, or the plunging spiral he could feel himself free-falling through. Either way, he didn’t think twice as he hefted the brick at his side, and hurled it at Sherlock with all of his strength. 

The brick hit Sherlock directly in his sternum due to his height, and the man bent at the force of air leaving his lungs. Jim cackled in profound amusement before John rushed at him. 

Jim stood up to brace and counter for an attack, but John surprised him. John leaned to the side, intent on escaping rather than fighting a battle against two men who had casually committed murder.

“Oh no you don’t,” Jim crowed. He leapt and tackled John to the ground. “Ready to leave so soon Johnny? We were just in the middle of a conversation. It seems rather rude of you to leave,” he continued to speak while John grappled with him on the ground. 

Glass crunched underneath their weight as they rolled, each one struggling to gain the upper hand. Jim succeeded in pinning John onto the ground by trapping John’s arms at his sides. Jim squeezed his legs to relish in the position. 

“Well now, isn’t this familiar,” Jim crooned. John felt vomit climb at the back of his throat as hatred turned his vision red. “Thankfully for the both of us,” Jim said, “it will have a different outcome than the last time I had a Watson pinned underneath me like this.”

He turned his head and shouted, “Sherlock! Grab the rope when you’ve caught your breath.”

John gripped onto a loose shard he felt underneath his fingertips. With a cry bellying his sorrow and fury, he surprised Jim enough to wrench his arm free and slash at Jim’s face. 

Jim fell off with a shout of pain. John sprang to his feet and ran for the door. Pain laced up his foot, and he looked down to see blood dripping from his toes as he continued to run. He looked behind himself, to see Jim smiling at him with a look of dark pleasure, as he wiped at the cut on his cheek.

John felt a sliver of fear lodge in his heart at the sight. He pushed open the door, and ran out into the cold. 

Apparently the two had planned to confront and drag him back alone, for there were no servants waiting to ambush him on the other side. The glass in his foot continued to stab at him as he ran. He could not continue like this.

John couldn’t trust any of the servants to aid him. He had to get to the village to seek shelter, and to possibly find a policeman. He needed a horse.

He headed for the stables. The journey felt agonizingly long. Not just for his limp, but the heavy snow fall that had quickly obstructed the path made it slow going. He knew the other two wouldn’t fare much better behind him, and with any luck they had spent some time rousing the servants for extra assistance.

When he reached the stable doors, he finally dared to look behind. There were not two pairs of hands rapidly descending on him. Nor could he see their silhouettes rapidly gaining. Perhaps they hadn’t seen his footprints or blood trail in the confusion of the fight and the blizzard. He could barely even see the mansion’s outline, and there didn’t seem to be any candles or gas lamps illuminating the windows. 

He entered the stable, unlocked since none of the horses were of real value to the estate. The slight warmth between the freezing outdoors and the heat of crowded horses was a relief for John’s frozen skin. He grabbed a spare cloak hanging on a peg, but didn’t stop to search for shoes. God only knew how much time he truly had.

Thankfully it was too cold for a stable boy to be present. He found his own horse and only fitted it for a bridle before leading it outside. The creature clearly picked up on his distress and the harsh conditions, for it nearly fought him every step of the way. But John was a good rider, and he was desperate to keep it under control. Eventually it broke to his will.

Even as he left the stables, he saw no one running for him. Rather than being relieved, it only made him anxious about their plans. These were extremely clever men. 

John knew he could never hope to outsmart them. His only hope was that they had underestimated him enough that their lies could be successfully exposed. He cursed himself for not having grabbed the documents when he had the chance, but it was too late for that now. He rode on in the dreadful weather, praying with every part of himself that he would succeed.

God must have finally taken pity on him, for it was truly miraculous that he had made it to the village. By the time he got there, he was soaked, aching, and would surely suffer hypothermia if he did not warm himself soon. The realization that he no longer noticed the glass in his foot made for a very poor sign. 

He barely remembered the streets from when he’d last been there, what seemed almost a lifetime ago. But the inn was easy enough to locate, being such a larger building than the others, and with its customer attracting candles in the windows.

John reined in his horse, and felt another sheet of snow slide down the back of his nightgown. When he pulled his leg away from the flank it steamed from the heat. He felt red-raw all over. As he dismounted, his body finally gave up on him and he was unable to catch himself as he fell.

The jarring of his body hitting the snow clanked his teeth around in his skull. For a moment, the snow bank was the most blissful pillow he’d ever encountered. It spurred him to slowly lumber upward lest he make it his death bed. 

The door banged open and a woman cursed, “Sweet Christ! Loretta, go get the hot water, hurry!”

Someone wedged themselves underneath him, and he gladly leaned his weight into the support. “Yes, alright, wait until we’re inside before you collapse,” she grunted, “Billy, bundle up and take the horse to the stable before it bolts or dies of cold.”

There was a protest that John couldn’t hear, and a sharp retort that he certainly did catch, “Yes, now, or I swear by God you’ll be sharing its pen for the night. Now go!”

Even the words next to him eventually became distant and muffled. He drifted in and out of awareness. He was stripped of his soaked garment and given a dry wool one. Layer after layer of blankets were piled on top of him as someone rubbed a warmed cloth over his red limbs. The fire crackled beside him. A few voices murmured to him in concern or spoke to each other in direction. It was all indistinct past the feeling of his blood slowly circulating once again.

A vague sense of alarm underlined his every thought, but the exhaustion, near freezing, and the escape for his life all proved to be too much. He fell into sleep.

~~~

There were no nightmares this time. Whether it was distance from the house, the villains that lorded over it, or the absence of his sister’s ghost, he would never be able to say with certainty. Either way, when he awoke it was due to a cold hand cupping his face rather than some surreal horror.

“I think he’s waking up,” a woman’s voice said. “Mr. Watson-Holmes? Can you hear me?”

John thought he responded with a vocal affirmative. What escaped was a confused and raspy sound.

“You’re in the inn, you were found nearly frozen to death. Can you remember what happened to you?”

The night’s previous events came rushing back all at once. Urgency gave him energy, and he snatched at the woman’s wrist before he knew what he was doing. She gasped in alarm but he didn’t let go.

“Policeman,” he managed to say, “I need…a constable…” 

John didn’t remember collapsing, but he opened his eyes. He was lying on the sofa in the main entrance, either his weight, or the imperativeness of warming his body had taken precedence over putting him in a bed. The hearth roared with fire, heating his exposed skin to a near uncomfortable degree. John shifted under the heavy quilts, and groaned at the responding ache. 

“Mr. Watson-Holmes?” the voice from before called out. A woman stepped into his view. Her mousy brown hair was tied back, and she was giving him a look of deep concern and sympathy. She held a cup of coffee to him. “If you have your strength back, you should drink something warm. You’ve had quite a shock to your body.”

John sat up and took the drink from her with a nod of thanks. After he’d quenched himself and warmed his fingers he asked, “I’m sorry if we’ve met, but I can’t recall your name?”

“We haven’t met,” she kindly smiled, “the owner told me who you were. I’m the closest thing to a doctor here for the time being so they sent for me when they dragged you in here. I saw to your wound. Thankfully it was a small cut even if it was rather deep. You should still avoid walking on it for a while. Oh, I’m so sorry! Where are my manners? I’m Molly Hooper, I work at the apothecary.” 

John was so startled that he sloshed his cup all over himself. He hissed at the heat and Molly shot up from her stool. “Oh goodness, I’ll fetch a rag!”

“Don’t fret about it,” John hastily said, “Ms. Hooper, thank God you’re here. You’re exactly the person I need. I’m in dreadful danger and I require your expertise.”

She was clearly taken aback by the statement. John pressed on, “I’ve been living with two deplorable men. One of whom happens to be my husband. They’ve proven to be the lowest sort of creatures imaginable. Of their many crimes, they’ve been poisoning me, weakening my body night after night.” 

John felt better saying it was poison rather than its true purpose. God willing, he’d go to the grave with the knowledge that people viewed him as a hapless fool who escaped through sheer luck, rather than a witless bedmate meant to satiate the appetite of two devils.

“I need you to help me identify the substance and evaluate its properties. I could assure you without any doubt of the tincture’s odor and color on sight if given the chance. I only need to get back to the mansion, and for that I need a policeman to escort us there and arrest those heinous beasts. Do you know if-”

“Mr. Watson-Holmes?” A voice interceded while Ms. Hooper continued to look completely aghast. 

A constable stepped around the corner. “Sir? Are you feeling well enough to speak yet? The mistress of the inn said that you asked for a policeman before you collapsed.”

“Yes,” John hastily agreed as he tried to stand. Pain speared through his foot. When he started to fall, Ms. Hooper was there to balance him. 

“Steady on,” the man gently said, “take your time. You’ve been through a rough night and I only know the aftermath. Now, can you tell me what happened?”

“John! Thank God, you’re safe!” 

John’s mouth clacked shut in fear at the sight of his husband running for him from the burst open door. 

Before Sherlock could even outstretch his arms for him, John backed away. “Get away from me!” he shouted, “Don’t you dare touch me!”

Sherlock obediently stopped. Distress was visibly etched on every line of his face. “John, it’s me. It’s your husband,” he said it as if his heart was breaking in his chest.

“I know who you are,” John spat, “you’re a liar and a murderer. You’re every evil in this world hiding behind a clever mind.” 

It seemed as though every word was causing Sherlock pain. John would have gladly dealt more, just to feel some semblance of justice for the agony of betrayal and uncertainty he’d suffered, but Moriarty joined them at that moment.

“Oh thank Heaven you found him! I almost started to search the other side of town before I saw your horse.”

“You stay where you are as well!” John demanded.

The policeman threw his hands up in the air, “No one is moving anywhere until someone explains this situation to me!” 

“And who are you?” Jim asked. It was hard to tell if he was being condescending, as his voice and expression spoke of neutrality, but his eyes betrayed a glimmer of irritation to John.

“I’m Officer Lestrade. My wife is the daughter of Jefferson Hope, and we were visiting for the funeral before I heard Mr. Watson-Holmes required a constable. Now who are you both, and what is happening here?”

John didn’t hear the two men answer. His mind was caught on the thought of Mr. Hope. The driver who’d left him alone in a tavern, in a town he barely knew, and to later become accosted by two random strangers. Two strangers who had said it ‘wasn’t worth it’ and that they’d needed the money. He remembered Sherlock’s insistence that he not go into town alone, the urgency when he’d found him, and Jim’s surprise when he’d walked out of the carriage door the following day. And then the driver, that had meant to be his ride back to ‘protection’, had been found frozen and alone days later.

Through yet another revelation, despite the fact he’d nearly been killed over his family fortune, it seemed worse to John, that he’d somehow convinced the one originally hell bent on his death, into falling into ardor with him instead. 

“-my husband is tragically out of his wits and I’m here to take him home,” Sherlock’s words brought John back to the present. 

“I’m out of my wits,” John incredulously shouted, “are you trying to be humorous now? It’s you two,” he pointed to the both of them, “who are completely insane! Or do you somehow believe that poison and murder are normal behaviors?” 

Several people exclaimed their shock. From the opened door John could see a curious crowd gathering outside. Good, he thought, let everyone know what sort of people lived at the top of their town. Even if bars, or the hangman’s noose, laid waiting for them in their immediate future, mass gossip was just as bad as a public burning.

“John, please,” Sherlock begged, “you aren’t making any sense. I know this must be confusing for you, but come home and we’ll sort this out after you’re safe.”

“He isn’t going anywhere,” Lestrade stepped forward, forming a solid wall between the two men and John. “Not until someone starts explaining what exactly is going on,” he held up his hand when Sherlock and Moriarty both opened their mouths, “and I’ll start by hearing it from Mr. Watson’s side first if you don’t mind.”

The both of them looked reluctant, but visibly conceded. Immediately John said, “They’re both conspirers. They deal in the detestable trading of blackmail and hired thuggery, or contracted murder if need be. They marry under false pretenses and then murder their spouses at the first opportunity. I’m proof enough of that, as they’ve been steadily poisoning me these last few weeks.” 

It wasn’t entirely true, but call it sedative or poison, he’d been drugged against his will. 

“C-constable,” Molly said after visibly drawing herself up. “I run the apothecary, and Mr. Watson-Hol, I mean, Mr. Watson told me the same thing. He said that he required my specialty most urgently when he woke up.”

Lestrade’s face had turned to righteous thunder. He turned to the two men who had remained entirely calm as their reputations were publicly dragged through the muck. “Gentlemen, these are some grave accusations attached to your names. What have you to say before I commence this investigation?”

Sherlock looked as though he was unable to utter a word. Like looking at John filled him with pain and regret. Jim stepped forward to put a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Only that you won’t find any evidence at all officer, because my dear friend John, and the dearest love to my business partner, is completely overcome with delusional hysterics.”

John felt justifiable anger heat his face and blur his vision. He took a step forward, to accomplish what he wasn’t sure, but was halted when Lestrade held out an arm to stop him.

“You’ve had your chance to speak Mr. Watson,” Lestrade reasoned, “regrettably I must extend the same courtesy to these men, regardless if they deserve it.”

“A courtesy we appreciate officer,” Sherlock said, “and one that you will find illuminates things quite well.”

“John has suffered an unfortunate number of tragedies recently,” Moriarty said, “His sister has passed; he has left behind everything familiar to move into new surroundings. A town that welcomed him by having him accosted and nearly killed by ruffians. He complained of intense nightmares that we foolishly disregarded. His stresses were only augmented when he became bedridden with a high fever. It seems that the last affliction fragmented his senses, and filled his mind with paranoia. We thought him on the mend, but his anxieties have evidently increased exponentially. He attacked us last night after raving about the things he just told you, and fled into the night with barely any clothing and his horse unsaddled.” Moriarty turned his head to emphasize the patch on his face. 

“It wasn’t his fault,” Sherlock was quick to jump to John’s defense, “he didn’t understand his actions. He would never strike out at us if he was himself. I can assure you-”

“By God, is every word out of your mouths a lie by necessity, or pleasurable habit?” John interrupted. “And this not even being a well-constructed example.” He turned back to Lestrade, and ignored the flicker of doubt behind his eyes, “I can prove the atrocities they’ve committed.”

“Officer, I can assure you that this is a waste of time and resources,” Jim said.

“I’ll be the judge of that Mr. Moriarty, if you don’t mind,” Lestrade snapped. 

Jim’s lips thinned in response, but he nodded. 

“Very well then,” Sherlock said and motioned towards the carriage outside, “You’re welcome to ride with us if it will hasten your journey.”

“I’m not getting into a carriage with them,” John vehemently swore. 

“You won’t,” Lestrade reassured him, “we’ll be taking a different carriage, gentleman. Since I’m sure you wouldn’t mind covering the expense?”

“If that is what would make my husband more comfortable, I would purchase all of the Queen’s horses,” Sherlock tightly said with transparent sincerity. 

They set off for the mansion, Molly joined John and Lestrade to offer any advice she could. John had dressed in the spare clothes of the stable hand, rather than his own clothes that Sherlock and Jim had brought. While John logically understood the need for validation to his claims, the thought of returning to the manor when he’d barely escaped last night grated on his skin.

Most of all, he hated the farce the men ahead of them continued to enact. He hardly expected them to surrender easily, but the false pitying looks, concerned eyes, and expressions of hurt made him wish he could pulverize such appearances with his fists.

He would endure it. He would put up with their charade until the blissful moment when those masks fell from their faces as the trap closed around them.

He didn’t wait for the carriage to halt before he jumped out. Lestrade called out to him as he started to make his way inside, and he slowed down to wait for the man to catch up. Sherlock and Jim approached him first, though they kept their distance. 

“I would have thought you’d want to visit the greenhouse immediately,” Jim pointed out, with his head tilted like John was doing something curious. That was, John thought, what he amounted to after all, a curiosity for two bored and immoral men.

He fisted his hands to avoid wrapping them around the man’s throat. “I anticipate, that following the same steps that I made in discovering your foul deeds, will emphasize why I was driven to my actions against you. Since you seem determined to discredit them as wild and violent ravings.”

Jim smiled indulgently, as if John were a child attempting to solve a vexing riddle. Sherlock’s lips were thinned to white lines while he refused to look at him.

Lestrade and Molly met them at the door. Lestrade regarded the tense trio, and motioned them all inside to get on with the proceedings. 

John led them directly to Jim’s room and the safe. “It’s been a night since I’ve uncovered their secrets,” he warned the officer, “so I would like to impress upon everyone here, that a complete lack of documentation in this safe should be deemed as curious, if not outright suspicious.”

“What’s curious to me is how you discovered the code to my safe at all Johnny,” Jim offhandedly said. 

John glared at him, but didn’t answer. Lestrade looked sharply between them. Clearly he wished to know the response to that as well, but the immediacy of damning evidence took clear precedence. 

John swung open the safe door, and was surprised and relieved to see that all of the documents were exactly as he had left them. It seemed strange to him; in all of the time that he was gone, they had not tried to sweep away their guilt. 

He pulled several documents from the top of the pile without caring what particular villainy it revealed. As his eyes roved over the words, he frowned. He examined them again, flipping over pages. Lestrade pulled one away while he was occupied, and Molly regarded them with apprehension and curiosity.

The documents contained the same information, yet everything had been altered in some way. The changes were minimal, but undeniable. What John was holding was nothing more than legal transactions. Even the notes attached to the pages had been changed to become innocuous. 

John tossed them to the side and saw Molly startle. He pulled out files until he reached the one that he remembered contained all of the marriage certificates. Only his slipped out. 

He scrambled through the papers, trying to find the rest of them. But they were nowhere to be found. Even though his heart ached to look at it again, he found the autopsy report of Harry. Everything was in perfect order, right down to the signature. Harry had died of an excess of alcohol, but there were no reports of bloodied lips or bruised ribs.

The fireplace flames crackled behind him. Without thinking, John tried to reach for the glowing ash. A chorus of alarm erupted behind him, and Lestrade pulled him away before he could even graze the fire grate. 

“Mr. Watson, don’t!” Lestrade chastised him. John shrugged off his hold and turned an accusatory glare on the two men.

“You’ve changed them! Duplicated the documents and burned the original evidence!” 

Jim gave him a look of deep pity, and Sherlock tried to entreat with him. “John, listen to yourself! To alter every single document, which even the officer will grant is quite an extensive number, down to stranger’s signatures, is not something we could conceivably accomplish.”

“I saw it!” John pointed to the papers strewn about the floor, “I saw the mortuary report, it all but stated that my sister had been murdered. There was a note attached to keep the hellish thing as a source of blackmail! I saw it!” 

The room rang with the silence that followed his outburst. John took a deep breath and willed the panicked clamoring in his head to stillness. 

“Fine then,” he gritted, “they haven’t thrived this long by making rudimentary mistakes. A set of bland copies and destroying the originals is a well-practiced precaution, I’m sure. But even you two can’t clean up what occurred in the greenhouse.” 

He walked past them, and resisted the urge to shove them aside. Perhaps because it would be a petty and juvenile move, when he was trying to appear well-reasoned, but victimized. Or perhaps he still saw a Jim smiling at him while blood dripped down his face, or a Sherlock whose eyes could glow with cold fury while two beaten and pitiable men fled for their lives, and maybe these recalled images still inspired a bit of fear. 

John led the way up to the greenhouse. He felt their stares burn into his back the whole way. He refused to think about how he appeared, having flung insults after trying to dive into a fire for evidence that was long destroyed. He refused to examine himself objectively, for he knew what he’d find. He would see nothing but a paranoid husband gone mad with grief.

John set his shoulders and marched on. Only to stop at the sight of the unblemished glass door to the greenhouse. 

“Is something amiss Johnny?” Moriarty called out from the end of the line. John spun around to stare at the pair in disbelief. They only regarded him with either curiosity or deep sympathy. John saw the concern from Molly, and the carefully neutral regard from Lestrade.

“Nothing,” John finally said. He turned around and opened the undamaged door. 

It would be inaccurate of John to think of the greenhouse as spotless when he stepped inside. After all, there were tools the gardener had left strewn about, and the potted dirt and melting snow tarnished the pathways. Yet there was no broken glass, no pools of blood, no sign of a struggle. Just a greenhouse, with all of the signs of care and maintenance attached to it. 

Every forward step he took towards the secluded section seemed to reverberate into his skull. He kept his pace steady, and his eyes forward, but inside he raged in disbelief. His mind played over last night’s events, the scuffle, the blood drawn, and the primal instinct to get away when something viewed you as prey. Not a single thing in the room told him those events had truly occurred. He wondered if he’d been asleep closer to a week than a mere few hours. 

But he had Molly and Lestrade, both of whom had said that he’d ridden into town half frozen by last night or early this morning. 

The door to the locked section was just as spotless as the other. A new padlock had replaced the older one, so John stepped to the side to allow Moriarty to open it. John kept his jaw clenched while he tried to be discreet about examining everything. There seemed to be not so much as a scratch on the door, and aside from the new lock, there was no other obvious alteration. 

While he wanted to scream about what had been changed and hidden, he knew better than to draw attention to it. He’d already been thrown into doubt from the altered documents. To try and say that they had somehow replaced the doors, and swept away the glass in that brief span of time, would only discredit him further. 

Moriarty opened the door. The previous incidents should have prepared John. He still possessed enough sense, or despair, to be surprised at the unaffected appearance of the room. Even the plants were perfectly upright. 

John only realized he was heading for the flower beds when his hands started pulling away dirt. The familiar sensation made his stomach churn. 

This time, he dug far deeper than before. 

There were no hidden ivory figures glaring from the black soil. Only white roots that tangled around his fingers.

“It was here!” John shouted, unable to keep quiet any longer. He spun around to the group that had crowded into the room with him. None of them said a word. 

They didn’t believe him. He felt that singular fact echo through him like a drop in an empty well. 

“The bones were here; the fight took place mere hours ago! It was all--” he stopped himself. John looked down at his hands, covered in black. It clung like ash, or like false accusations made evident, filthying everything he touched or said. 

“No,” John denied to himself, “no, they were still poisoning me.” He looked up towards the shelves. He moved aside dried herbs and experimental remedies, but the mysterious pot from before was gone. In his haste and desperation, a few crashed onto the ground, spreading broken pottery and fragrant mixes everywhere. 

“Mr. Watson,” Lestrade’s carefully neutral voice called to him. John turned around and nearly flinched at the look of pity on his face. “Perhaps we should discuss this within the house.”

“No! I’m telling you they gave me a strange tincture. Made from this plant, I’m certain of it!” He yanked the accused flower from its bed. The roots curled out thick and pale, like grasping fingers that were picked clean.

“Ms. Hooper, please!” He thrust it towards her. John desperately tried to ignore how close she looked to crying. 

She blinked away her tears, and took the plant from him to look at it intensively. For a moment, it seemed to John that she was determined to prove him correct. But her face fell, and his hope crumpled with it.

“I-I recognize it,” she said, “this is baneberry. It is poisonous,” she allowed, “but it wouldn’t cause the symptoms Mr. Watson described. If it was found in a tea, he-he would have been dead already.” Molly glanced up, and immediately turned her face away from John’s expression. 

“You have a good eye, Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock said as he gently withdrew the stem from her. “You are quite correct. The berry is entirely poisonous. Mr. Moriarty and I only use the roots, which have been rumored to be a healing agent for seizing muscles.”

He placed the plant on its side, back in the bed it had come from. Then he turned around and addressed the officer, “Within your authority Officer Lestrade, I would like to begin my own line of questioning on my husband. Since, I believe, I should be granted such a request. Given the accusations my husband has laid on me, as well as these intrusive inspections, without a proper warrant?” 

Lestrade’s face wrinkled, as though it pained him to grant Sherlock what he wanted. But he nodded his assent. 

“That is very much appreciated constable. Now then, John,” he turned to the man, and John felt an invisible trap cinch tighter around him. “I would like a direct answer, and I’m sure Jim would appreciate such a courtesy as well. How did you gain access to that safe?”

John felt the ends of his fingers turn cold. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

Sherlock sighed as though he were disappointed. “You are not obtuse John, don’t pretend to be so. That was a numbered lock, and as numerous as your talents are, I don’t believe safe cracking to be one of them.” 

John’s mind scrambled for an excuse. The irony was not lost on him, that the one falsity he would be forced to tell, was the only thing that would keep him from being deemed a madman. 

“I saw Jim enter in a code. I spied on him, after I suspected your duplicity,” the lie fell naturally enough from John’s tongue that he thought himself safe.

“When?” Moriarty pressed, which garnered a sharp look from Lestrade, but he wasn’t rebuked for it. 

“A few days ago,” John said, “after dinner and before bed. I stationed myself outside your door so you wouldn’t perceive me.” He hoped it was vague enough to work. Moriarty could very well have not opened that safe since he had arrived at the estate. 

“I did use the safe then,” Jim allowed, and John felt his heart beat a little steadier. “But it was with an entirely different code.” He pulled out a piece of paper from his inner coat pocket, and handed it to the officer. “This is a list of all of my previous codes, to be sure I do not duplicate myself. You will notice, officer, that the one John used when he was in my rooms is not anywhere on this scrap.” 

The room was tilting, John thought. Surely the world was slowly turning on its head. 

Lestrade examined all of the numbers, and nodded stiffly. He handed the paper back to Moriarty and looked at John while he said, “The code you used isn’t on there Mr. Watson.”

Perhaps they had all been transferred to the sea, left afloat on the open water, with how assuredly the floor was rocking. 

“And so I reiterate, John,” Sherlock said, much closer than he had been. He didn’t fear what John would do anymore. Why should he? John could barely remember which direction was up any longer. “Where did you get the code to the safe?”

“I discovered it, what does it matter how?” John’s voice boomed in the small space, “Shouldn’t it matter more how you’ve done nothing but lie to me the entire time I’ve known you? That your ‘business partner’ murdered my sister? That you’ve been quick to ensure that everything I say has no real merit, just to hide your crimes?”

“But what crime have I committed John? Even these good and objective folk from the village can attest to mine and Jim’s innocence.” Lestrade and Molly both shifted uncomfortably when John looked at them in distress. 

“You, however,” Sherlock said, “have attacked Moriarty and I, have fled into the dead of a blizzard night in a screaming rage, have acted as though your very shadow was a spy turned against you by unknown forces. You have not been yourself since you entered this mansion. If there has been any crime I committed John, it is that I was too blinded by my love for you to realize how ill you’ve become.” 

“Don’t you dare,” John snarled, “don’t you dare use that word with me. Not after all that you’ve done. All of the vile things that you’ve enacted upon me, and you dare to say you’re in love with me. You don’t deserve love.”

Sherlock took a step back at those words, and at the vitriol that was corroding John’s expression. Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose, and said the next few words as though they were being pulled from his body by fishhooks. “Harriet said the same thing. That I didn’t deserve your love.”

“She was right,” John spat. 

“She was also a drunk John,” Sherlock said, which John to his core. “A drunk that was dependent upon her brother to keep her sober. One that did not want to hand over a portion of the inheritance to complete strangers, who were looking to steal away her only sibling.”

“Shut up,” John warned.

“She was a drunk who was watching her only friend in the world be taken away from her. And when her words could not dissuade you from me, nor could her threats drive Moriarty and I away, she turned to the one thing she had left.”

“Shut up!”

“The one thing that couldn’t walk away from her. A cup and a full bottle of whiskey.”

“I said shut up!” His fist was caught before he even knew it flew. Sherlock stared him down while Moriarty held a shouting Lestrade away from them both. 

“She was dead, you felt needlessly guilty. You suffered from nightmares and felt as though you couldn’t turn to either of us for help. The ones responsible for taking you away. So you blamed us. Saw us as the reason for her death.”

“You _are_ the reason,” John yelled. The words were so soaked with hate and despair that he was drowning in them. “You killed her!”

“She killed herself John,” Sherlock said. “She’s the one who put that bottle to her lips. Not Moriarty, not me, and certainly not you. But you saw her ghost, didn’t you John?”

John’s lips sealed with fear. Something like triumph gleamed in Sherlock’s eyes, but only he was close enough to see it. “You saw her blaming you, and blaming us. You saw her trying to set things right, to get her brother back in any way she could.”

The grip around his wrist tightened. John buckled under the pressure of his world falling down. “Once more,” Sherlock said with a voice like a frozen dagger, “who told you the code, John?”

John felt his mouth open and close over nothing. His mind continued to scream back at him in blinding white. 

“Harry,” he said to the breathless universe that was waiting for his answer, “it was Harry.”

With those words, John felt the trap snap closed around him. ‘I’m sorry Harry,’ he thought to himself, ‘I’m so sorry.’

Sherlock slowly let go of John’s wrist. He didn’t look smug, or proud, only mournful. “There you have it officer. I’m sorry to have brought you and Ms. Hooper out here for such a matter.”

Lestrade shook his head, “It…wasn’t an inconvenience to us Mr. Holmes. Terribly sorry to have troubled you.” He looked at John with deep commiseration. John’s heart shriveled at the sight of it.

“There are…certain institutions,” Lestrade hesitantly said, “that would be able to assist with your husband’s condition. Perhaps if he was transferred to a facility that would better be able to handle his needs-”

“No!” Sherlock and Jim both shouted. John reeled under thoughts of metal gags, rooms with stuffed sacks along the walls, and surgical steel rods, unable to protest. 

“No,” Moriarty repeated in a much calmer tone, “that won’t be necessary, officer. What John needs is a familiar environment, and his family. We’re more than capable of handling him when necessary.”

John would be completely under their control. There would be no one to listen to him, no one to take him seriously. He’d be the raver who saw ghosts, in the care of his saintly husband and comrade. He would be entirely alone.

“You can’t,” he whispered in horror, “you can’t!” He said, loud enough for everyone to turn to him again. “Please, you cannot leave me with them!” 

“Ah, case in point it seems,” Jim idly said. “Sherlock, I’d hate to ask this but could you please,” he motioned his head towards John as he reached into the other side of his jacket. 

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, “of course.” He moved with a speed John didn’t know he was capable of. Before he could try to land a punch or even move out of the way, Sherlock had John’s arms behind him, locked in such a way that moving would dislocate them. 

“Hold his chin back, if you would be so obliging,” Jim asked as he stepped forward with a small brown bottle. John didn’t have to read the small print to know that it contained laudanum. 

He thrashed in Sherlock’s grip, desperate for escape. His efforts only served to bring searing pain to his shoulders. Sherlock muttered something about doing all of the work, but he grasped John’s arms just as effectively with one hand as with two. The pale fingers tipped his head back, and John caught a glimpse of Lestrade turning a weeping Molly away from the wretched sight. 

“Easy now Johnny,” Jim murmured. He undid the stopper to the bottle, attached to which was a dropper filled with the tincture. As he pinched John’s nose closed he said, “We don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

John would have had a scathing retort for that, if it didn’t mean opening his mouth. Eventually, the base urge for air grew too strong to ignore. He tried to gasp for breath briefly, but they were both quick to hold his jaw open. Moriarty quickly squeezed the contents down his gullet. 

The both of them covered his mouth with their hands, and only a small measure seeped past their fingers, as John tried to splutter it back out. It didn’t take long for the medicine to have its desired effect. He felt it seeping through his system, gentle as a smothering blanket. 

The rocking of his world had turned into lapping waves. Slowly, John was lowered to the ground as his legs ceased to work. Distant mumblings droned above him like a hive of fat bees. His eyes roved along the dirty ground, unable to focus on anything. Until he saw a speck of broken glass, glimmering in the sunlight. 

It seemed barely larger than his fingernail, but it glowed so brilliantly. He tried to point it out to Lestrade, or Molly, thinking they would enjoy the way the color refracted along the wall. But then someone swept it away with the side of their black and expensive shoe. John’s thoughts swiftly followed.

~~~

There were words being spoken above him. They slowly carried him away from the muffled blackness of his mind. The lights were dim, and gave everything long and shifting shadows. 

Despite being naked, John felt completely warm. He moved like a creature that had never been introduced to independent motion. 

“He’s waking,” Moriarty alerted Sherlock. Both were equally as clothed as John, “Or as close to it as he can be. Hello Johnny. You certainly gave us quite the fright earlier. For a moment, it seemed as though you would actually succeed in your escape. How fortuitous for us, that the blizzard, the caring villagers, and your insatiable need for justice kept you tethered, rather than simply fleeing for the hills as soon as you’d recovered.”

Jim stroked a hand down John’s face, and John tried to dislodge it. Moriarty only chuckled, “Oh, none of that John. You’re going to have to get used to such things from now on. We’re the only two people in this whole world you can turn to. After all,” he leaned in close, as if they were sharing a personal secret, “you’re officially insane.” 

John made a noise that the drugs prevented him from stopping. Moriarty cooed, “I do so love that broken look. It took quite a bit of self-restraint on my part, from doing anything untoward when you were having your little meltdown in the greenhouse.”

“If you’re quite done self-congratulating, we did have plans for tonight,” Sherlock testily said. 

“Oh, how could I forget,” Jim said. “You’re going to love this Johnny. Well, not really, but _we_ will love it, and eventually, you’ll learn that that’s good enough.”

He kissed his way down John’s chest. Each one seared like a brand. It wasn’t until Jim reached his navel, that John’s tongue felt small enough to allow for speech. “Am I…drugged…again?”

Jim giggled into the crease of his thigh. “Oh, you are. Just not in the way you’re used to, or rather, in the manner you have so heartlessly accused us of. We _want_ you to remember what happens next.”

He left a playful kiss on John’s navel, and moved behind John to prop him upright. While Jim held John’s back to his front, Sherlock took his place between John’s thighs. He held a tin of vaseline and a phallic object. It looked firm, possibly carved from wood, but was set with leather and attached by seamless nails. 

“Amazing what people will do to cure hysteria these days,” Sherlock said while lubricating his fingers. 

John’s heart began to pound despite the opiates. Jim stopped flicking a nipple to remark, “Oh, our golden boy is a little nervous.” He licked up the side of John’s neck, “You should really be grateful. We had an arduous debate about your proper ‘punishment’. _I_ wanted to melt your wedding rings and paint the molten metal across your fingers. Apparently that was ‘too severe’.” 

Sherlock slipped two fingers inside of John during Jim’s speech. John’s body refused to cooperate when he instructed it to kick the man away. Jim continued to speak while Sherlock stretched him.

“Although, Sherlock did have the rather inspired idea to place you in a coffin, and make you think you were being buried alive. I think he was still a little miffed at having a brick thrown at him.”

Sherlock’s fingers twisted in response, and John keened. “You don’t have to worry about that John, we’ve come up with another solution.” Sherlock nodded to the toy at his side.

Jim scoffed, “Give it until the ground thaws, then we’ll see if Sherlock still holds a grudge. But he’s correct. And doing something hazardous, when we’ve narrowly avoided a more thorough investigation, would be imprudent. No, this works to everyone’s satisfaction.”

Sherlock rubbed the object with vaseline until it glistened. He then moved John’s ankles until they rested on Sherlock’s shoulders. Between the two of them, he was practically bent in half. “We’re going to fuck you with this,” Sherlock plainly said as he brought the toy into view, “until you beg for us instead.”

It disappeared from John’s sight to press against his hole. It was the most unyielding thing John had ever experienced. Even as relaxed as his body was forced to be, it still pushed against his walls. He had the mind to be grateful that the metal studs were polished smooth, but they still served to create little nudges and bumps that unspooled his mind like a loose thread. 

Hands ran up and down his arms and over the backs of his thighs. They were clearly meant to soothe, but only wound him tighter. It was so stiff, that John could feel that his heartbeat caused the thing to pulse in place. 

Jim hushed him, but John hadn’t realized he was making sounds. “It’s as Sherlock said, we’ll put it away when you plead for us to fill you in its place.” 

Sherlock began to slowly thrust it in and out of John. This time, John heard the sob that was wrenched from him. 

“We have four hands between us,” Sherlock said, “and a very dogged motivation to see you broken.” 

“Even if we do get tired,” Jim said, “there’s always the next night. And the following, and the one after, and so on.”

Sherlock twisted the thing around. John could feel it rotate and reach undiscovered places. A knob brushed against his spot. John’s ankle kicked out as electricity fissured through his body.

“Meanwhile, this will all be nothing more than an extremely vivid dream when you awaken. You may remember everything, and dread each night, but you will have no proof of it,” Sherlock’s words rumbled in John’s head, as timeless and terrible as thunder. 

“Sherlock will go back to being the devoted husband, and me, the compassionate friend,” Jim’s voice belonged to the snake of Eden, tempting and dark. “You can always try to tell people what’s occurred, but I wonder if you could ever confess to the way we ravish you every night. You didn’t before, when you were trying your best to get rid of us.” 

A fingernail pressed into John’s nipple, and he jerked between them. 

“And when everyone doubts your word, how long before you begin to doubt yourself, John?” Their voices seemed to blend together, to form echoing and prophetic soothsayers. Or perhaps it was the spirits that floated in and out of John’s vision that spoke to him, their malformed shapes as insubstantial and fleeting as smoke.

“How long, in our care, do you think you can believe in your reality, before you start to accept ours?”

The ghosts surrounded him and obscured his sight. He could no longer see his tormentors, but felt himself being gently impaled over and over again. 

The wraiths whispered to him, “You should have joined us when you had the chance.”

John woke up. His wrists were strapped to the headboard with soft but unyielding leather. The waking nightmare of the past few days caught up to him, and he thrashed.

“John, stop, stop!” Sherlock rushed to his side. “Easy, you’re safe. You were experiencing another episode.” He ran a cool hand over John’s sweating forehead.

John’s mind reeled while his insides throbbed. From constant tossing and turning, or from the vivid images of his dream (or reality?), he wasn’t sure.

“Here,” Sherlock said as he held a sweet-smelling cloth up to John’s face, “this will help chase away the nightmares.”

It covered John’s mouth and nose before he could scream. His eyes grew heavy, his body begged for a respite never given, his mind was twisting itself into a Gordian knot, and beneath it all, John wondered how long he would last.


End file.
